once you're in my arms you'll see
by sinkorswim13
Summary: It's the early '70s. Quinn is the President's daughter feeling stuck in her own life and heartbroken over her last break-up. Puck is just another guy without proper table manners, waiting to turn eighteen and be drafted for war. When they meet, it's different- but it doesn't make it any less hard. Puck/Quinn, AU
1. Chapter 1: love is their only happiness

_Please keep in mind that, I'm, in fact, not an North-American citizen. The title is taken from Donny Osmond's song 'Hey, lonely girl'._

…

"**Some girls they don't forget it,**

**love is their only happiness."**

**- Try a little tenderness by Otis Redding**

…

_Wednesday April 3rd, 1974, 4:35 PM_

_Route 75, OH, the United States_

_..._

Tired, she leaned her head on his shoulder. She let out a yawn and his free hand shifted over to cover hers. She looked at their hands, her fingers gently tracing over his scars from the war, faded but to her they felt new, fresh, _present_. She adjusted her head a little, so she could look at him. The sound from the rain outside almost blended out the low sound of his radio.

"_If I had a day that I could give you, I'd give to you a day just like today_," she heard him sing along softly and it hurt her like a knife in the chest. He used to sing with pleasure, without fear. Now he felt like he had to hide.

There was a flash of lightening for the sixth time in fifty minutes, the time they'd been on the road since they left his house and they were getting more frequent. It was unlikely dark for an April afternoon.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, grasping his hand tightly and he turned his head to look at her, his grip on the steering wheel tightening.

"Why?" A frown appeared on his face and he glanced over at the abandoned road for a moment before looking back at her.

"For everything."

He looked back at the road and that was that. A silent agreement that they wouldn't talk about it anymore.

She turned her head to kiss his shoulder, resting her head there for a moment before turning back to look at the barely visible highway. By now they're was lightening and thunder and she quickly did a prayer, cursing herself for not having taken her rosary.

"Shit," he mutters as his windscreen wipers stop working and everything goes by so fast. He leans forward and lets go of her hand, resting it on the steering wheel instead as he tries yanking on the handle to make the wipers work again and next thing she's knows she's screaming his name and she can feel rain on her skin.

…

_Monday January 18th, 1971, 10:21 AM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

She dug and dug and dug until she could feel the sand surround her hands, her fingers, her nails. She picked up a small green plant from next to her, yanking off her necklace before planting the plant on top of it.

"Miss Fabray?" She recognized the voice in an instant, it being her help since she was eleven.

"Yes?" She sniffed as she wiped her tears with her wrist. She didn't turn around, didn't hesitate, didn't stop.

For a sixteen year she could be quite dramatic, Santana Lopez knew this, but this time it was different. The young girl was barely twenty herself, but she was older in a much different way than age. Growing up as a Hispanic girl in republican North-America hadn't always been easy.

"It's almost time for lunch. You need to get ready." She folded her old dress behind her butt and sat down on her knees next to the blonde, wiping her hair from her face. "Look at you, you're a mess," she laughed silently as she wiped the dirt from the younger girl's cheek.

Quinn pushed her hands away, "Don't ridicule me," she spat as she started shoving dirt into the self created hole with both hands.

Santana stopped her, fishing the necklace out of the hole with ease and holding it up. It was a small silver hart, the initials S and Q on the back. "It's pretty, Miss Fabray, why are you burying it?"

"It has no value to me," she bit as she yanked it from her grip and threw it back into the dirty sand, continuing her task of closing it.

Santana stopped her once again, holding on to both of her hands, "Miss Fabray, burying won't change anything."

"It's Sam," Quinn said, not looking at her. "He broke up with me." Tears formed in her eyes and her voice broke, "He left me for some stupid middle class girl." Her lips quivered but she didn't break, didn't let a single tear fall. She refused to cry in front of people. Santana admired the way she was so strong sometimes. "He said he was under too much pressure, that he didn't like being watched every time we went somewhere."

"He's a fool, miss, I told you so," Santana smiled, recalling the way she had told Quinn that, _Sam Evans wasn't good enough for her_, and, _besides his good looks he had nothin' goin' for him_, as she nudged Quinn with her elbow playfully. She didn't break out in a smile, let alone let out a small laugh like Santana had hoped she would.

"You just gotta keep on truckin'," Santana told her wisely as she helped her up and dusted off the girl's dress. "C'mon, we need to get you cleaned up for lunch. Your father would kill me if you're late, miss Fabray."

Quinn nodded, giving in as Santana lead her inside, pushed her inside the bathroom to the already filled bath smelling of roses, rinsed out her hair, handed her a pretty dress, positioned her in front of the vanity, put on her make-up and combed her hair.

Santana knew her like the back of her hand, and when she saw Quinn working in the garden while preparing food in the kitchen, she knew something was wrong.

"Do me a solid," Santana said as she finished braiding Quinn's shiny blond hair and looked at her in the mirror, "Smile. Girls with a pretty face like you shouldn't be frowning."

"I feel stuck," she whispered in response, staring at herself in the mirror.

Santana helped Quinn up from the chair and patted her cheek, "C'mon _cariño_, today is tomorrow's yesterday." Quinn nodded her head before descending down the stairs slowly, Santana following her, only a few feet behind her as they entered the dining room.

…

_Tuesday January 19th, 1971, 08:02 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

"You can cry if you want to," Santana doesn't look at her, instead focuses on sewing Quinn's dress. She had ripped it earlier today, on a walk with her father in the garden.

"Why would I?"

"I'm not dumb, I'm not blind and I'm certainly not _deaf_, miss Fabray. You've cried yourself to sleep the past nights."

Quinn doesn't say anything, just swallows, pinches her arm so hard she has to bite her lip to keep herself from crying out in pain.

"_Damnit_," Santana curses as she puts her finger in her mouth. Making sure Quinn wouldn't see, she would've have fainted if she had.

Quinn sits up, admires the way Santana goes on after seconds, her hands working swiftly. Her black hair is loosely hanging on her shoulders, just a few strays tucked back her ears, the way she only wears it when no ones around, except for Quinn sometimes.

It shows Quinn that she trusts her, so she should trust her, too, right? She has known Santana for years. She helped her with her algebra homework, made sure she didn't stay up late, made her favorite dinner on her birthday, played with her when she was bored, kept her excited for tomorrow in a world like this. In some way Santana was her mother, maybe her sister. She was family. She could trust her. She should trust her.

"I really thought I loved him," she tells her, biting her lip as she plays with her blanket. She picks at the fabric.

Santana sighs, puts the dress down, smooths it, "You're sixteen, _querida_, this may seem like the end of the world right now, but you out of all people should understand. You're dad is the president."

Quinn tightened her jaw, she hated that, she hated all of that. Her father, yes, not her. She is not her father nor will she ever be him.

"There's a war going on, people are dying, people are homeless, children are hungry,- you have a lot of blessings, miss. There will be other boys. In time."

"You sound like my grandmother," Quinn tells her after a moment and Santana continues to sew.

"Don't make a fool out of me, miss Fabray. You'll regret it when you know what I know."

...

_Wednesday January 18th, 1971, 09:25 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

"It'll be alright, miss Fabray," Santana tells her as she closes the curtains and turns off the lights except for the small one next to Quinn's bed.

"You're on to speak. Every Sunday at church you sulk about some boy you haven't seen in forever," Quinn tells her as she absentmindedly turns the pages of her book. She didn't know what it was about. The title just said something about Hitler, and pink rabbits and she thought it'd distract her. It didn't.

"Who says it's about a boy?" Santana says as she sits down on the edge of Quinn's bed.

Quinn looks up at Santana, asking herself if she heard it right, "Are you saying... But that's a sin."

"Is it really? Is it a sin to love?" Santana takes the book from her, puts it down on her nightstand, tucks her in. "I don't blame you, miss Fabray. It's how you were raised, it's what you were taught to believe is right."

"What's her name?" Quinn whispers, her mind racing as Santana turns off the light next to her bed.

"It's just my family I miss," she says, knowing it would put her mind to ease. It was better this way, lying. Quinn knew what she had meant, but she didn't really know because she wasn't told explicitly. Now she could always deny it, tell people she hadn't known, if people were to ever find out.

It was better that way, lying.

…

_Thursday January 21rd, 1971, 11:46 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

"You should be asleep," the Latina hisses as she opens the door to Quinn's room, quickly turning off the light before one of the guard would see and tell her father.

"I'm sixteen, I'm old enough to decide these things for myself, _damnit_," Quinn snapped and Santana shushed her once again.

"That's no way for a lady like you to talk," she whispers, throwing her hair over her shoulder, pulling her nightgown over her knees as she sits down on the chair by the vanity set.

"You curse all the time, don't treat me like a child," she bites back, raising her voice even louder. She wanted someone to hear her, _damnit_. She wanted someone to yell at her and to punish her. She must've done something wrong.

Why else would Sam leave her? Why else would he want to hurt her so much?

"I'm not a pretty lady like you, miss Fabray," Santana doesn't raise her voice, doesn't talk to her in a degrading way, just irritates Quinn even more.

"Just go away."

"Go to sleep."

"Go away!" She screams and Santana shakes her head.

"You're a little girl, miss Fabray, a little stupid girl."

Quinn breaks out in tears this time, the first time Santana has seen her cry since she broke her arm when she was twelve.

"He didn't want me," she sobs, her voice breaking and Santana caresses her hair with her hand, lays her down on the bed. "He didn't," she shook her eyes, squeezing her eyes shot as tears flew from her pure green eyes Santana envied so much.

"_Hey Quinn_," she sung softly, changing the lyrics, voice cracking a little from the years of lack of singing, stroking Quinn's hair, "_Don't make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better, remember to let her into your heart then you can start to make it better."_

...

_Friday January 22rd, 1971, 08:17 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

"I wish to speak to Mr. Fabray."

Santana's posture didn't falter as one of the guards asked her to spread her arms and legs, and it didn't falter when his hands lingered on her chest, either, nor when he shared a laugh and a cheeky smile with the other guard. She was used to it. They knew that if she said anything to anyone she wouldn't be believed, she'd get fired even, so she never did. She just wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her distraught.

She held her head up high as they told her the familiar, "Keep it short, Miss Lopez." She opened the doors to the oval office, not once she'd been here without getting this weird sense of pride, of _awestruck_, and immediately spotted Russel Fabray behind his desk. She cleared her throat. He didn't bother to look up.

"Yes?" He asked her, signing a piece of paper.

"I'm here about Miss Fabray, sir," she tightened her jaw, her hands behind her straightened back.

He leaned back on his chair, sighing as he looked at her. He took of his reading glasses, nodding for her to continue.

"I was wondering if I could take her out," she fastened her speech as she saw his interest already decreasing.

"That's out of the question. I won't let my little angel out of this safe haven under your supervision. You can barely handle her in this house,-" she cut him off, even though she knew it was disrespectful.

"She's cried herself to sleep for the past four days. Ever since she and that kid, Sam, broke up," she paused, looking down before looking into his eyes again, "I'll take two bodyguards and we won't go to far, just a nice, little restaurant with a small band playing. It'd be good for her. She's been feeling imprisoned and this will make her last for at least two full years at this place."

She'd never been good at pleading, begging. She had self respect, pride,- but Quinn, she was like her little sister. "She'd really appreciate it, sir."

She saw the hesitation on his face so she leaned forward putting her hands on his desk, lowering her voice as she bit her lip, "_I'd _really, really, appreciate it, sir."

"Four bodyguards, two hours top."

"Thank you, sir," she stepped back, nodding her head at him before making her way back to the kitchen. She breathed heavily even though she hadn't ran and rested her back against the fridge, hoping non of the other helps decided to do some dish-washing at this time of day. She felt dirty, disgusted, like she was betraying little miss Lucy Quinn Fabray and her sister Fran, the sophisticated Fran with her degrees and diplomas and her racist husband. And their mother, Judy, sweet, distant Judy with the pretty eyes that had been nothing but good to her.

She shook her head as she wiped some sweat from her forehead with her white apron.

Miss Fabray was going to be the dead of her.

…

_Friday January 29rd, 1971, 06:17 AM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

"Time to wake up, Miss Fabray. Today is a special day," Santana told her as she opened the curtains in Quinn's room, it was twice as big as Santana's entire house had been back in time when she still lived in the southern part of America.

Quinn yawned, wiping her eyes, half awake while Santana took the blankets from her, putting a white dress on the bed.

"What's today?" She let out another yawn as she swung her legs over the bed.

"Me and you get to go out tonight, somewhere else, not this _goddamn_ place. Everything is so white," she snickered to herself at her ironic choice of words as she shooed Quinn of the bed, quickly making it.

"Please don't use God's name in vain, Sant,- Wait? I get to go out?" Her downcast behaviour turned into excited, in a split second as she pulled her sleeping gown over her head.

Santana puts a pair of flats next to the bed, tells her, "Two hours, Miss Fabray, but you have to be on your best behaviour the entire day. No frowning, just smiling and nodding."

…

_Friday January 29rd, 1971, 14:17 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

"You can borrow one of my new dresses," Fran tells her, a sweet smile on her face but Quinn knows she means little of it.

"Thank you," she tells her, even though she doesn't want to borrow one of her dresses. They're different, sometimes maybe even too different and Quinn doesn't like the way she dresses. She takes a sip of her hot tea as quickly as she can, burning her tongue but she doesn't hiss, doesn't curse herself, doesn't beg for a cold glass of water.

"That's so nice of your sister, isn't it?" Her mother says as she wets her napkin with her salvia and wipes Quinn's eyelid with it. She doesn't wince, but it takes everything in her. She can feel Santana's eyes bore into her back as she watches from afar, ready to answer any request she or her family makes.

Sometimes she feels sorry for her. She left her family in an other country at a young age to provide for them and here she has to whatever they say, no matter how degrading it was they asked of her, she'd do it. Quinn wasn't a fool, she knew Santana was one of the more lucky ones, working in the White House. She promised herself she wouldn't think about things like this, they were too real, to unguarded unlike her life here.

She lived in a big, plastic bubble, guarded from real sounds, real smells, real colors, real _people_ because of who her father was, except for rare occasions.

Rare occasions like tonight. She can't believe her father would let her out of the house.

"It is, mother," Quinn nodded her head mindlessly as she took another sip, ignoring the stinging feeling in her tongue.

"Richard bought it for me a while back," Fran wraps her hands around her warm glass. "It's a size two," she adds, her eyes boring into Quinn's in a way that makes her stare back.

Judy nods, a tight smile forming on her lips, "Great, you can keep it then, Frannie could never fit into a two. She has her grandma's hips."

Quinn knows Judy isn't trying to be mean, just honest. She also knows her sister blames her. Not so much for being skinnier or prettier, but being her parent's favorite. God knows that if she could change it, she _would_. Not because she loves her sister so much, but because she doesn't like to get treated any different from others.

It's a joke, really, a joke she tells herself, the president's daughter.

"Misses Fabray," one of the other helps, an older woman with brown curls erupting from the pile of hair on top of her hair, says, "President Fabray wishes to speak to you."

Judy nods and raises from her seat, "I'll be right back girls."

Quinn catches Fran's eyes again. She looks away, coughs, plays with the hem of her dress. Her hands turn sweaty and she feel uncomfortable under her gaze. She's about to start a conversation, say _something_ but Santana clears her throat.

"Miss Quinn, Brittany's on the telephone."

Brittany was one of her friends from middle school, before she was home schooled. A nice Christian girl with the right parents. She was nice, sweet, had a pretty face. She was a bit of a ditz but she had always treated Quinn as she treated anyone else.

Quinn feels Fran's eyes on her back as she leaves the table, hears the crunching of cookies, before she enters the living room.

"Hello?" Quinn asks as she puts the phone against her ear, twirling the white cord around her fingers.

Santana takes the phone from Quinn's hands and puts it back down.

"She's not on the phone."

"What?" Quinn asked her head snapping up, a confused look on her face.

A small smirk forms on the Latina's face, "What would you do without me,_ cariño_?"

…

_Friday January 29rd, 1971, 06:36 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

Quinn stares at herself in the mirror. Fixes her hair, reapplies her lipstick, makes sure the dress sits right in every place, takes off the lipstick, puts her hair down, puts on another color of lipstick, changes her shoes, takes of the white necklace she's wearing, puts her hair up, puts on another ring.

Santana stops her hands once again, takes the pins out of her hair and makes a nice braid in the front of her hair, something she used to call a 'princess crown' even though Quinn had been too old to be so oblivious.

She takes off the lipstick, claims it makes her skin looks pale and applies some lighter color instead. She sprays some perfume on her wrists and on her collarbones, tells her she should put some behind her ears too before she tells her they have to leave in ten.

Santana throws her a smile, tells her not to be nervous, calls her a _cariño_, leaves to change herself.

Quinn let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding, looks at herself in the mirror again and holds her stomach. She feels nauseaous. At first she had hated the dress, but Santana had given her a cute belt and a nice sweater and it had improved the outfit in tenfold.

"You look beautiful," she hears her mother from behind and she turns her head abruptly. She winces, reaching for her neck. Her mother never came to approve of how she looked, not even before she went on dates with Sam.

"Thank you," she blushed, not because of the compliment, she was used to people telling her she looked beautiful, but because it was a compliment from her _mother_.

Her mother stepped closer, cupping her daughter's face in her hands. "You watch out, okay? Don't try to do anything stupid and don't part ways from the help or any of the bodyguards, do you understand?" It was like her mother knew then, this was the night that her life would change. It intrigued her, knowing one night could have so much impact. She longed for something different, something fun.

"Ready to go?" Santana knocked on the door and Quinn nodded, hastily placing a kiss on her mother's cold cheek.

"I'll see you in two hours."

...


	2. Chapter 2: so you won't go

_Thank you for all the reviews, it means a lot. Sorry for my Spanish errors, the only language I'm taking at the moment is French and I won't have Spanish until next year. I also owe you a big excuse for not updating in a while, I just came back from Italy where I've been for the past few weeks. Unfortunately, it's time for me to go back to work now (and after that, school) so it might take a while to update, but thank you for sticking with me!_

…

"**I try to say just anything, just anything so you won't go.**

**You can show me how to speak love."**

**- Stay with me (Quédate conmigo) by Pastora Soler**

…

_Friday January 29rd, 1971, 07:01 PM_

_20th street, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

Santana leaned over, keeping her eyes on the bodyguards in the front of the car as she lowered her voice, "At the next traffic light, get out of the car and follow me."

Quinn barely had time to look distraught or worry or to tell her 'no, you're crazy' or maybe even warn the bodyguards before the car stopped and Santana opened the door, pulled on her hand and got out.

She faintly heard the car doors slam shut and the bodyguards calling after them as the car behind them also opened it's doors, two more bodyguards coming out and running after them.

"Miss Fabray, stop!"

"Keep running, miss," Santana told her, a cheeky smile on her face as they entered a back alley and pulled her into an emergency exit of a building she had never seen before in her life. It looked old and deserted but as soon as they entered, she heard the loud music and breathed in the smokey air.

As she tried catching her breath, she shot Santana a glare, entering the girl's bathroom, "Are you kidding me? Do you want to get yourself fired? Or worse, killed?"

"Your father won't fire me. _Trust _me, _cariño._Besides, if those guys are smart and want to keep their job, or have any job in the future for that matter, they won't report this and they'll wait at the address I left on a note in the car." Santana fixed her hair, looking at Quinn in the mirror, "Lighten up. It's time to have fun."

The Latina threw her another smile, one that said '_you don't even know what's coming_', and too be honest, Quinn felt like whatever was coming wouldn't be worth the trouble she'd be in if her father ever found out.

They left the bathroom and walked into, what Quinn guessed, was a bar, hence the dim lightening, loud talking people and barely dressed girls.

"Maybe we should just leave," Quinn tried reasoning with Santana as she watched in awe how people drank beer and did shots all the while some guy was singing, no, screaming into the microphone on the small stage.

People looked so, carefree. She hadn't seen people act this way before. Including Santana. Especially Santana. It was different and she felt uncomfortable but safe at the same time.

"Let's dance," Santana ignored her previous statement and grabbed her hand yet again. Quinn pulled it back, shaking her head. "No, thanks, I'll just get something to drink. You want anything?"

Santana let out a quiet, almost giggle-like, laugh like she knew something Quinn didn't and shook her head. "You know where to find me."

Quinn wrung herself through a sea of people, the smell of smoke and sweat mixed with beer invading her nose, trying to reach the bar. She watched all the people and she felt,- she knew she was out of place here.

Her clothes, her hair, her ridiculously expensive jewelry. She was dressed to impress and people here weren't impressed. She felt like a joke and a child at the same time.

Finally, she reached the bar and ordered herself a sweet tea, something her help, who was currently off having a good time, made her a while back. She looked at Santana, she was dancing with a few guys, obviously enjoying the attention. She moved her body to the beat like Quinn had never seen before. Who was she kidding, the only dances she had seen before were ballroom dancing and ballet, which she had seen in the Swan lake, a show her grandmother and grandfather had taken her for her twelfth birthday.

The bar man put the drink in front of her and she handed him ten dollars without looking at him and murmured a 'keep the change'.

"You look like you're not having much fun," the bar man said as he wiped the counter with an old rag and something about the teasing tone in his voice irritated her. She looked up and saw a darker colored man, about the same tint as Santana, with a hairstyle people commonly referred to as an mohawk and a handsome face, not that she would let herself admit that.

"I'm not. This is just not my kind of scene," she sighed as she stirred her drink with a straw, staring at the way the ice cubes moved. The went down as long as she pushed hard enough, but always came up.

"So you're saying you're better than this, pretty girl?" He sounded amused and something about him made her want to wipe his mischievous smirk off his face. He raised an eyebrow at her as he stopped wiping the counter andpoured himself a glass of beer.

…

_Wednesday February 23th, 1971, 09:36 AM_

_Presidential Building, Beijing, China_

…

She rushed into President Zedong's office, knowing that if she got caught, she'd probably be murdered for spying and the future of her country wouldn't look as great as the purpose of this visit to begin with, had looked.

She picked up the phone and dialed a number she knew like the back of her hand.

"Hello?" She hadn't meant for her voice to quiver. She had meant for herself to be strong and mature about this. She hadn't even been gone for three days.

"Who's this?" The connection faltered a bit but she recognized that voice anywhere.

"I miss you so much," she breathed and she realized she had become a girl she had prayed for she wouldn't become. She didn't want to be this dependent of someone, of him, of _anyone_.

"I miss you too, pretty girl," he told her earnestly before adding a sincere, "but you shouldn't be calling me."

"I know," she sighed as she leaned her head back on the chair, mindlessly playing with the cord of the phone. "I just didn't know what else to do."

She heard some chatter and laughs on the background and wondered if he missed her as much as she missed him. "You know you'll always be my pretty girl, right?"

"I do," she bit her lip, spinning the cord around her finger, "I just care a lot about you, you know?"

"And I'll never know why."

…

_Friday January 29rd, 1971, 07:34 PM_

_Trevor's bar, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

"I did not say that," she defended herself, before lowering her voice, "I just don't fit in here." No one had ever been able to offend her so much, by saying so little.

"You won't unless you loosen up a little, pretty girl. No one likes an tight a-," she cut him off, glaring at him. "Stop calling me that, as a matter of fact, stop talking to me." She took the straw out of her drink and angrily gulped down half of her glass.

He raised his hands in defense, "No one told you to talk back." He smirked at her again and she huffed, knowing he had her there before looking back at Santana. She was still busy having the time of her life. Never in her life had she wanted to leave a place so badly, but she couldn't do that to Santana. She'd went through all this trouble to do something nice for her, so the least she could do was hang in there for half an hour. A small half an hour.

"My name is Puck," he told her as he dried a glass after washing it.

She sighed, "Quinn."

"That's a pretty name."

"I wish I could say the same," she leaned her head on her hand, continuing to play with her straw.

"No need to get rude."

"I'm sorry, it's just..." Her head snapped up and her voice trailed off as she saw the teasing look on his face. She couldn't help but smile a little at that. He was definitely different than Sam, but then again, she probably shouldn't compare them because she wasn't dating him, that Puck guy.

"So you _can_ smile," he joshed her and she felt bad. She hadn't been raised this way. To be rude and unthankful and judgemental to people when she didn't even know them. "It's a nice one," he added and she could practically feel the blood rushing to her cheeks.

"Puckerman, quit hitting on girls way out of your league and get over here," she heard a voice ring through the speakers and for a second she prayed this '_Puckerman'_ guy was any good because if he wasn't, this would might be the shortest half an hour of her life. Silly her, she should have connected the dots.

"Well, sorry to cut this lovely conversation short, _pretty girl_, but duty calls," he winked at her before jumping on top of the bar, getting off just as fast and walking towards the stage. He was the _'Puckerman'_.

She turned around on her bar stool, a confused frown on her face as she watched the scene in front of her unfold, intrigued. He grabbed a guitar and connected it to some kind of electronic amplifier and talked with the other guys who were holding instruments for a moment before he started singing. It was nothing she had ever expected to come out of a guy like him.

Puck Puckerman. What kind of name was that? But like one of her favorite authors once said, _what's in a name_?

She had always been a smart girl. Even before she was home schooled, she got the highest grades in her classes. She was the kind of girl that wondered if people would ever run out of lyrics or where the saying 'it's raining cats and dogs' came from or why the trees were green and the sea was blue. She was smart, something that got overlooked because of her looks many times, but then again, if she was really wondering about this boy, this man, then she might not have been as smart as she thought.

Everything about him said, _screamed_ trouble. Yet, she was looking at him like she was a girl in the front row at a Johnny Cash concert.

…

_Friday January 29rd, 1971, 07:49 PM_

_Trevor's bar, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

"Man, do you even know who that is?" Finn, his best friend since grade school, asked him, causing him to roll his eyes. "You're lucky one of her bodyguards hasn't floored you yet."

"I don't care who she is, I was just being friendly to a customer," he took the guitar from Finn and hooked himself up as Finn sat down behind the drums.

"She is the president's daughter," Mike cut in, after all these years he could still say something normal like '_one beer, please_' or '_I ran a red light this morning by accident_' and still make him crack up. His accent was to die for. "Even I know that and I'm an immigrant."

Puck shrugged, he figured she was some kind of high society lady. She looked like one. She sure was stuck up like one. In a fun way. "Don't worry guys, it's not like I'm _into_ her."

"You said that the last time and she turned out to be your first serious girlfriend," Finn recalled as he balanced his drumstick on his index finger before throwing it up a few inches and catching it in his hand.

"Will you girls hurry up with your talk about periods and boyfriends? People are waiting," Jesse's annoyed voice cut in as he put his bass around his shoulder. Puck tried to remind himself on why they let him in their band again before remembering he was the only one who made enough to pay for their equipment and advertisements. Or rather, his father did.

"Showtime," he muttered as he turned around and placed the microphone stand in front of himself as Finn started counting down from 3 to 1.

His eyes found the blonde girl again and for the first time, he actually remembered a girl's name after hearing it just once. Quinn. She sure was pretty, like he had told her. But there was something about her, the way she acted and talked and looked, that made him want to know everything there was to know about her.

It was weird. Uncommon. Unlikely. Impossible. It was all kind of things he didn't understand.

…

_Friday January 29rd, 1971, 08:03 PM_

_Trevor's bar, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

They were playing their third song when Santana sat down next to her.

"See anything you like?"

"No."

"Quite lying."

"I don't know," she looked at the stage again before facing Santana. "Do you come here often?"

"Don't change the subject, miss Fabray," Santana took a sip of a drink Quinn hadn't seen her order.

"I'm not," she bit back, irritated, "I'm just interested, that's all. If you don't want to tell me, it's okay."

Santana sighed, taking another sip of her drink, "I come here on Friday nights and some Saturday nights when I'm off duty."

"I never knew that," she stated, more to herself than the dark haired girl next to her.

"I know. It's okay," she shot her a smile before putting her drink down and taking Quinn's glass out of her hands and putting it down next to hers. "Time to dance. No excuses."

She got pulled onto the dance floor and she could practically taste the salt of sweat in her mouth but she didn't have time to feel disgusted as Santana's good mood was contagious, and before she knew it she was moving her body to the same beat everyone was.

"What do you know about that Puckerman guy?" Quinn leaned closer to Santana, trying to raise her voice enough so she could hear her over the music.

"His name's Noah, but everyone calls him Puck. He's almost 18. He lives above this bar. He's annoying most of the time, sleeps around a lot, he's a good singer but an even better songwriter, he's not going to college because he's trying to 'make it'," she rolled her eyes, complete with air quotes and everything before going on, her voice even louder this time, "He's raised as a Jew by his mother, his father left when he was little. His favorite color is blue because when he was a kid he dreamed of seeing the sea and when he did, it became it favorite thing in the world. His favorite things in the world right now are his car, curse words and girls. Anything else?"

Quinn shot her a confused look before looking over at Puck.

Santana let out a laugh, which Quinn couldn't hear over the music and she remembered thinking it looked weird, seeing someone laugh but not hearing it, before offering her an explanation by yelling in her ear, "He's my cousin. _cariño_."

…

_Friday January 29rd, 1971, 08:28 PM_

_Trevor's bar, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

"So what did you think?"

"What did I think about what?" Quinn asked him, trying to remain cool under his gaze. She was sitting back at the bar, but she had waited a few minutes longer than she had wanted to, she hadn't want to seem like she was sitting down because of him or for him or something ridiculous like that.

"About our songs," he raised his eyebrows at her and she bit the inside of her cheek.

"It was fine."

"You're kind of strange, pretty girl," he chuckled as he threw the rag over his shoulder, turning around to grab a bottle of whisky she had seen before in her father's office, for an other customer.

She didn't want to let him get under her skin, she want his his words to matter, but he did and they did.

She swallowed hard, her stomach felt knotted, "Aren't you underage?"

"Maybe, but so are you," he said as he poured himself a glass of the same liquid he had given the other customer and finished it in one gulp.

"You're not allowed to work here, are you?" She was the one to raise an eyebrow this time, her finger tracing the rim of her glass.

He huffed, "Who are you gonna tell?" He licked his dry lips, wondered out loud, mocked her even, "Your daddy?"

She knocked over her glass and the small remains stained her dress, and without wanting to, tears formed in her eyes. "Oh no.."

"Here let me help you," he appeared at her side, using a few napkins to sloppily wipe her lap, only creating a bigger mess. "It's just a dress," he remarked as he looked at her face.

"I just don't want to be this person," she whispered to herself and he stopped his movements.

"Are you okay, pretty girl?"

"I'm fine, just tired."

He touched her arm for a second, asking if she was sure and for a moment memories she didn't really remember, of a big white picketed fence house and two kids and his smile surfaced her mind and she was beginning to think she was insane.

There was something there, something she didn't want there to be, but was there anyway.

…

_Friday January 29rd, 1971, 09:13 PM_

_20th street, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

Quinn had so many questions but didn't ask a single one and Santana smiled at her again, trying to tug a piece of her fringe behind her ear, putting her hand back in the pocket of her coat, "I know that look."

"What look?"

"You're wondering, maybe even worrying."

"It's nothing."

"That look tells me it's everything."

"It's not. How can something be everything?"

"You'll understand one day," Santana told her and she sounded a bit off as she nudged Quinn with her elbow softly, she added, "It's Puck, isn't it?"

"No," she said a little too quickly and the sly smirk on Santana's face made her sigh. "Maybe."

"I've never told him where I work, all he needed to know was that I was making money and he didn't have to worry, that's enough," she didn't elaborate any further, just stated out of the blue that that was the way it was. "That was enough."

It was getting colder by the minute and Quinn didn't remember a single winter that had been colder than this one. She had to start wearing her winter coat in October, while she usually was able to postpone it until at least November. She didn't like to carry around the extra weight.

"Did you have fun tonight?" Because of the cold it looked like Santana was smoking every time she spoke and Quinn couldn't tear her eyes off Santana because of it.

It set her on edge, how Santana never gave anything away unless she pried, and pried, and pried for it, or asked her clearly.

She shrugged, pondered about her answer, looked at her feet, avoided Santana's stare, avoided sounding ungrateful, "Sure."

"Do you think I'm.. Strange?"

At this Santana chuckled, "No. Different maybe."

"Different then everyone or just people like you?"

"People like me?" Santana raised her eyebrow at Quinn but she remained looking at her feet as they walked in unison. "You know what I mean. And tell me the truth."

"Everyone. Not because of where you come from because even growing up you were different from the people who were like you. Like Franny for example. I used to think you had an old soul, something my Abuela told me about when I was little. You can be sweet and mean at the same time, that's my favorite quality of yours," Santana joked and Quinn smiled as they stopped in front of a nice looking building.

"Once we step in there the night is over," Santana looked at the sign of the café, letting out a deep breath.

"Can I see him again?" She blurted out making Santana turn her head to her.

She nodded slowly, "Okay. If that's really what you want, I'll find a way."

"I want to."

"C'mon," Santana nodded her head into the direction of the small café and started walking towards it, Quinn following her lead.

"Miss Fabray, thank God," one of the bodyguards muttered, shooting Santana a glare.

"I could get you fired."

"But you're not gonna," her eyes turned into slits, "Or do you really want to admit you lost track of the President's daughter and her Hispanic help?"

He huffed and she grinned, "That's what I thought."

Quinn muffled a small laugh, casting her eyes to the floor once again after she watched four bodyguards look so small compared to sweet, snippy Santana.

"Now bring the car around, we don't want to be late."

…


	3. Chapter 3: taste that your lips allow

_(A big thanks to **x****xiluvnileynjoejxx, BMontague, Gleekalwaysand4ever, QuickSapphire** and the two **guests** for their reviews/tips, and especially to **GraceKellyBardot** for her two reviews! Thanks for your support. Sorry for my lack off updates, the Olympics have started and since I'm very involved with swimming (I swim on a competing level) I had to watch every game in between my work shifts. Go the Netherlands! Also, I will go down with this ship. I don't care if they just pretend Quick never happened (like I'm about 100 percent sure about) or that Ryan probably won't ever upload a deleted Quick scene,- I will go down with this ship. Quinn and Puck are for me, the only really realistic couple (I love Finchel so much ok, they make me want to cry and write depressive fanfics but in real life he would've never gone for her, no matter how much I hate it) and I just love them so much it hurts me that they won't ever get a real chance. Suck my nose if you disagree because QUINN AND PUCK OK, JUST PLEASE STOP, I WILL START CRYING AND THROWING INANIMATE OBJECTS AGAINST MY TV. Anyway, sorry for my ranting about an excuse and my favorite ship you probably don't want to hear (about), on to the next chapter.)_

…

"**Give a little time to me, we'll burn this out.**

**We'll play hide and seek, to turn this around.**

**And all I want is the taste, **

**that your lips allow."**

**- Give me love by Ed Sheeran**

…

_Sunday January 31rd, 1971, 04:17 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

"So when can I see him again?" Quinn finally build up the courage to ask Santana as she took a drink of her tea carefully. Her mother and father were out at a benefit and her sister refused to come down to '_just have tea with Quinn_'. She had spoken her name like it was some kind of disease.

"I thought you were kidding," Santana retorted as she picked up the plate of cookies she knew Quinn wouldn't touch and looked around before taking one and putting it back.

"I wasn't," Quinn put down her cup and Santana studied her for a moment before shaking her head to herself as if she knew this was going to be a bad idea before it had even started. To this day Quinn still didn't know how she had known.

"Why?"

"Because.. He didn't talk to me like I was me. He talked to me like he would've talked to any girl in that bar."

Santana smiled to herself as she poured herself a cup of tea. Under normal circumstances she wouldn't have been allowed to even sit down here. "No, he didn't, miss Fabray."

Quinn frowned and Santana sighed, giving in she stated, "Like I said, if you really want to see him, I'll find a way."

"Like I said," she challenged, raising her eyebrow, "I want to."

Santana huffed before changing the subject to the dress she wanted to wear to her parents anniversary dinner for their friends and family. Quinn nodded absentmindedly at everything she said, wondered what things Santana had meant when mentioning she'd find a way.

…

_Friday February 12th, 1971, 01:48 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

"He'll be here any minute now, _cariño_," Santana shot her a sly smile and Quinn sighed, putting her book down as she looked out the window and played with the cross around her neck.

"I'm not so sure anymore, Santana, what if this is all just a mistake?"

"You can stop this any time you want, miss Fabray."

"Stop _what_?" Quinn snapped, more to herself than anyone else. "It's not like there's anything already going on."

Santana shrugged as she sat down on Quinn's bed and watched her shift in the window seat. "You tell me. Don't tell me you asked me to bring him over here when there was nothing going on."

She brought her hands down in her lap and took a deep breath. "Fine."

"Fine _what_?" Santana mocked her and Quinn shot her a glare, "_Fine_. Don't cancel."

"If anyone asks, he's visiting me, his cousin and he's bad at directions and accidentally ended up here." Santana walked to the door and before closing it she hesitated and told her, "If it helps, your the first girl he has ever canceled a show for."

Quinn sighed, because whatever that meant, it didn't change anything, did it?

…

_Friday February 12th, 1971, 02:15 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

She had this feeling in the pit of her stomach she couldn't quite describe. A feeling she hadn't had before, at least not for something as simple as a meeting. It was something like nervosity mixed with anxiety, maybe.

She had been waiting for this meeting for days, almost weeks, and she didn't know why but every time she thought about her night out with Santana, she felt that feeling and it was terrifying and thrilling at the same time.

She had felt like this when she had thought about Sam for the first few days, but it never lasted. Now when she thought about him, she just ached.

"You're late," she told him as she saw him emerging from the door without knocking. She tried to act cool, look cool but she knew her red stained cheeks were giving everything away.

Santana had told her he'd be here at two fifteen, it was now two sixteen.

He looked around, not in awe or jealousy or envy, but more like he wasn't that impressed.

"Nice house."

"Thanks," she muttered and for a second she doubted everything again. Then she didn't.

He smirked at her, "You wanted to see some more of the Puckerman?"

"You canceled your show for me?" She smirked back at him and he was taken back for a second, like he had expected her to fall down on her knees and thank God for him.

"Maybe," he said before sitting down on her bed and looking around some more, putting his arms behind him and leaning back. She had never had a boy on her bed before. Sam hadn't been allowed to even go upstairs.

Quinn hesitated before sitting down on the chair that was in front of her vanity, facing it with her back. She straightened her back and crossed her legs, not sure what she should say or do.

"You have a guitar?"

"It's mine, my boyfriend gave it to me because he wanted to teach me," she cleared her throat, "_Ex_-boyfriend," she clarified as she saw the look on his face before looking at her feet.

He stood up and grabbed the guitar before sitting back down, "Come here," he said, neither asking or demanding.

She sat down next to him, neatly folding her dress behind her butt, making sure to keep her distance. It wasn't so much about whom he was, or his gender, just because she didn't want him to think she was easy like the other girls he had ever dated. The girls Santana had told her about.

"Do you know '_ain't no sunshine'_?" He asked her as he started strumming the guitar, hitting it with is fist in the beat of the song when he wasn't strumming.

She shook her head, her blonde curls bouncing on her shoulders, "I don't sing."

"I never asked you to," he grinned as he started, "_Ain't no sunshine when she's gone. It's not warm when she's away._"

"You keep saying that," she told him before putting her hair behind her ear. She had heard the song on the radio before, but not like this. It was an acoustic version, she guessed. It was beautiful. "_Ain't no sunshine when she's gone, and she's always gone too long_," he had just wanted to start when she cut him off.

Her voice was nothing like he heard before. Sure, it probably wasn't the best voice ever, she was kind of raspy and even cleared her throat after the first three words, nor did she have the best technique or did she sing nearly loud enough,- he was sure he could listen to it forever.

He didn't know why, but hearing her voice, like that, it felt kind of like the time he was a child and had been out starting trouble all day but then he'd come home and his mom would have a plate full of food prepared for him and a bunch of jokes ready. Always the same ones, but they always stayed funny to him. It felt like coming home in some weird way.

"_Anytime she goes away_," he sung with her this time, as he looked into her eyes and he before he knew it he forgot the rest of the lyrics and stopped strumming the guitar and it was dead quiet.

She didn't blink, didn't swallow, didn't even breathe,- he was looking at her with such an intense look and she hoped she wasn't looking at him like that even though she probably was.

He leaned forward and their foreheads touching, their noses brushing against each other and she thought about the way he had looked behind that bar, days ago, almost weeks ago. She closed her eyes and so did he and then,- nothing.

He didn't kiss her and she wasn't sure if she should.

"I can't," she whispered against his lips, keeping her eyes squeezed shut as she tried getting his smile out of her head.

"But you want to," he stated, looking at her eyes even though they were closed, his hand moving to remove a piece of hair from her face, placing his hand on her cheek.

…

_Wednesday May 14th, 1972, 03:09 AM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

"You have to stop this, miss Fabray," Santana told her as she wiped away Quinn's tears with one hand while tucking her in with the other.

"He's your cousin, damnit," she snapped, slapping her hands away, and Santana pulled her hands back, "Don't you hurt? Don't you want to scream,- and cry, and yell at everyone? Because I do, I do so badly,- and I wish I could change everything."

"I do, I hurt, miss Fabray," Santana slowly stands up, straightening her ponytail and waiting for a moment before adding, "But I have to be strong, for him, for the rest of our man out a war. You are not alone, miss Fabray, you're not, so stop acting like you are."

"I know I'm not the only one, Santana, I'm not stupid!" Quinn's voice is shaky as she sits up and throws everything off her nightstand with a simple swipe.

"Sometimes I feel like you are," Santana trembles with anger, and Quinn has never actually seen her pretty face be so ugly, "You can waltz right into the hallway, go in to your father's office and change something. No one else can do that, miss Fabray."

"So, yes,- you might be hurting, but your also the only woman at home with her loved one at war, who has a chance to make a change. And I swear to God, miss Fabray, if I come here one more night to find you crying,- I won't be here to wipe your tears."

...

_Friday February 12th, 1971, 02:22 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

"Go easy on me," she told him both truthfully and jokingly before connecting their lips. Her head spun and her stomach twirled and she had to grab onto his wrist and squeeze really hard to tell herself she was still awake, and alive, and kissing him. Kissing Puck. She could get used to that.

She frowned as she stops, resting her forehead against his, her breathes uneven, her common sense taking over her brain, "I barely even know you."

"I know," he tells her, panting, before adding, "But it feels like I know you, you know?"

She moves her hand up his wrist to cover his hand with hers, she doesn't say anything, just covers his lips with hers again.

She knew exactly what he meant, it just scared her.

…

_Friday February 12th, 1971, 05:24 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

She had never spent an entire afternoon just being with someone. They had talked, about things she had never told anyone and about nothing. They had joked around about her house and her clothes and Santana and his clothes and his band and his hair and about a guy in his band, Jesse. She had showed him her entire room and the possessions that meant the most to her and the least and they had kissed. They had kissed and kissed and she had never had kisses from anyone that made her feel _this_ good.

Before she always went out to do something and they did things she hadn't even liked and she normally didn't even kiss the guy until the second date,- but with Puck everything seemed to come naturally. It was slowly driving her crazy.

Santana cleared her throat and Quinn jumped away from the bed, quickly wiping her lips with her fingers. She shot Puck a glare as he remained to sit on the bed, looking like this wasn't the first time Santana had found him in this position with a girl.

"You should've knocked!"

"I did, miss Fabray," Santana raised her eyebrows, "Three times, actually."

"Oh," she said stupidly as she kicked Puck's leg for him to stand up. He still didn't. "Puck was just leaving."

Santana smiled and '_hmm'd_', not even glancing at Puck, "I'll leave you two to say goodbye, dinner is ready in a few so hurry up. You know your sister gets impatient when she doesn't get her food on time."

Quinn nodded, only moving her chest to breathe as she waited for Santana to leave.

He stood up, reaching out for her hand, "So when can I see you again?"

"You'd have to ask Santana, she can get you in," Quinn sighed as she squeezed his hand.

"And out, I hope," he smirked and she smiled faintly before he pulled her closer, her head resting on his chest. "This isn't just another hook-up to me," he whispered and she wasn't sure if she had been meant to hear.

She leaned up to kiss him anyway and he kissed her back and before she knew it he had her boxed in against the door and it took everything in her to pull away. "You need to go before Fran personally comes up here to get me," she told him before placing another kiss on his lips.

"So? I could finally meet your family," he retorted, connecting their lips again.

"Believe me, you don't want to meet my sister," she pecks him on the lips before continuing, not being able to concentrate as he started kissing her cheeks and neck, "Besides, my parents are out to another dinner with a congressman."

"Another reason I should stay," he breathed against her neck and she pushed him away and smiled, "Another reason you should _go_."

He sighed, rubbing his face before placing a final kiss on her pink lips and opening the door, "Make sure to tell Santana '_the sooner the better_'," he winked before closing the door behind him.

She sighed, shaking her head to herself as she leaned back against the door. She just met him and this was crazy but the feeling in the pit of her stomach told her they could have something amazing if she wanted it to be.

…

_Saturday February 13th, 1971, 11:47 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

"I'm going for a walk in the garden," she tells one of the bodyguards and he knows not to follow her.

"Yes, miss Fabray," he nods and she walks further along the stone path, a book under her arm as she sits down somewhere on the grass surrounded by flowers and bushes, just far enough from the house.

"Quinn," she hears someone whispers and she looks around before deciding she's crazy and going on with her book.

"Quinn," this time it's louder and she knows for sure there's someone calling her name.

"Who's there? I call for security!" She warns whoever is spying on her, before she sees a familiar mohawk emerge from the bushes.

"Are you insane?" She yells, before lowering her voice, "You tried to break into the White House? Seriously, Puck? You could've gotten yourself killed, you know that right?"

"So many questions, no kisses," he smirks, walking closer to him and she quickly looks around, "Not here! _Especially_ not now. "

"You look cute when you're angry," he tells her with that stupid smirk still plastered on his face and she hates the way the blood rushes to her cheeks anyway.

She hits his chest with her book, "Don't ridicule me! What are you doing here?"

He shrugs, "I was just out for a walk when I saw you, small world."

"That's not funny," she smiles anyway and he kisses her cheek, "I want to take you somewhere."

"I can't, I have dinner with my parents at six," she tells him as she pulls away, trying to remember what clothes she put on this morning and if she had even done her hair. She plays with a lose curl and he stares at her lips.

"Care to explain the 'can't' part?" He raises his eyebrows and she sighs. "You'll be home before the clock even strucks five," he promises her, grabbing onto her hand. "C'mon, you know you want to."

"If we get caught daddy will probably shoot you before he looks me up forever, and that's the things he would do just as a father. As a president for that matter.." Her voice trails off and she doesn't even see him blink, doesn't see his grin falter or his body tense,- like he isn't even afraid.

"Fine," she breathes as he pulls her towards the bushes, "But make that four thirty."

She sees him smile and all she can do is shake her head. Sometimes she didn't even get herself.

They get into his truck and she thanks God no one saw them, or maybe they did and just figured Santana would slaughter them if they tried to stop her. Maybe a bit of both.

He takes her somewhere she hasn't been before and after half an hour in his truck she starts to wonder if maybe he's kidnapping her or planning to kill her. As he takes her hand and places a kiss on her knuckles before smiling at her, she knows she's wrong.

They stop at a small lake, no houses or paved roads or bodyguards around for at least a mile, just trees and grass and water and more trees. It smelled like wet wood and it was peaceful.

"It's beautiful here," she told him as she looked around in awe.

"I used to go here when I was younger. Santana always drove me and she would just sit there while I swam. It's relaxing really," he said as he looked out at the water.

She studied him, "Santana?"

He chuckled, "Being out in the water, I mean. But I guess Santana, too. She's always looking out for everyone."

"My daddy, when he wasn't so busy all the time," she cleared her throat, "he used to take me out for ice cream every Sunday after church and we'd sit in the park and talk for hours about everything or nothing. Just the two of us."

He didn't say anything for a while and she hadn't meant to get so personal. She knew she was blessed, she wasn't one to whine about her father and how he couldn't spend his every minute with her when he had a father that hadn't even stuck around for his fifth birthday.

"I don't really remember my dad," he told her as he sat down, throwing a rock at the water. "But if there's one things I want in life, it's to be nothing like him."

"I just want someone to love me," Quinn said it before she even knew she had and she quickly looked away, at anything but him.

He stood up after a while, pulling his shirt over his head. "What are you doing?"

"I'm going for a swim, what does it look like I'm doing?" He smirked at her, kicking of his shoes and taking of his pants before diving into the water. "You should come in, pretty girl."

She shook her head, "I don't have a bikini on me and it's freezing."

"Neither did I," he jokes and she can't help but smile. "I'll keep you warm?" He offers, smirking again and she just shakes her head. "No thank you."

"Do I need to come out and get you?" He warns her and she bites her lip. "Fine, I'll get in, but don't even try to touch me."

"What gave you the idea I ever would?" He grins and she glares at him before demanding him to turn around.

"It's nothing I haven't seen before," he tells her as he turns around and she ignores him, stripping down to her underwear, making sure her bra won't turn out to be see through before quickly jumping into the water. She didn't want to give him the chance to even look at her. It was just a bunch of firsts with him. First, he's in her room, and a day later he has her stripped down to her underwear. She might be going insane.

"It's so cold," she screams out, her teeth chattering as she hugs herself, rubbing her arms to keep herself warm.

He laughs at her, "You're such a little girl."

She screams again, "Something touched my leg, it touched my leg!" She quickly swims over to him, clinging onto him like she could die any minute now.

"What happened to the '_no touching_' rule?" He wasn't complaining, he really wasn't. Who would be when there was a beautiful girl, a half naked one, he might add, holding on to him tightly? He just loved to rile her up, she looked so sexy when she was angry

"Shut up! I almost died."

He laughs at her again and she glares at him, "It was probably just some seaweed or a small fish."

She lets out a deep breath she didn't even know she'd been holding and lets go off him. She missed the contact instantly because he'd been right. He kind of had been able to warm her up a little. "Stop laughing at me, you're making me look like a fool."

"You're in a lake in the middle of nowhere with a guy you barely know, I don't think it's me who's making you look like a fool," he teases her and she huffs, swimming away from him, her teeth clattering.

"Your lips are blue," he tells her and it just earns him another glare.

He swims towards her and puts his hands on her waist, steadying himself. She shivers and looks up at him and he doesn't remember ever seeing such beautiful green eyes in his life before.

"You're really pretty, you know that?"

"So you keep telling me," a small smile forms on her lips and she bites down on her lip so hard to convince herself she possibly can't be looking into his eyes in a lake in the middle of nowhere and still feel her heart skip a beat and her stomach do flip-flops and her head spin,- and she looks at him, really looks.

"But that's not all there is to you, I know that,- and it's actually the first time I _have_ known that," he tells her and she nods her head slowly.

"I really lik,-" she cuts him off and kisses him. Her lips feel cold against his but he doesn't care.

"Me too," she says, squeezing her eyes shut as she pulls away, as if she trying to tell herself this can't be, this shouldn't be. But it is. "I can't give you what those other girls have given you, if that's what you want."

"It's not."

…

_Saturday February 13th, 1971, 05:34 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

"You're late," Santana hisses as she rushes Quinn into her bedroom and throws a dress her way while she tries making her hair look presentable. Not even Santana's bad mood can wipe the smile off her face. "He took you swimming, didn't he? I am going to kill him," she mutters the last part to herself.

"He did. Why, is that where he takes all of his girls?" Quinn's smile does falter at this and Santana yanks just a little too hard on her blond locks, making her wince.

"Be careful," she cries out as she takes the brush from her hands and starts doing it herself.

"He has never taken anyone there besides me. I thought you just wanted him as a distraction for a while, I didn't think you would sneak out and almost get me fired and come home looking like you've been kissing for hours straight," Santana sighs as she takes all over Quinn's hair and moves it onto her right shoulder, revealing a small, but obviously there hickey. "Cover that up, will you?"

"I'm sorry," Quinn tells her, patting make-up on her neck and Santana sighs again. Sometimes Quinn thinks she's just bitter. Puck told her about the days when she would still yell and scream at everyone about how much they sucked and how much better she was. Back when she still had hopes and dreams, not dinners to cook and dresses to sew. Quinn would've liked to meet that Santana, then again, she wouldn't trade her maid,- or someone she actually considered as her best friend,- for anyone.

Santana places her hands on Quinn's upper arms and rubs them and looks at her, "A warning next time would be nice, okay?"

Quinn nods and Santana lets go of her, "And be careful."

"I am."

"Dinner's ready. They're waiting for you. You are on your period, okay, _cariño_? Cramps was the only excuse to keep everyone out of your room."

"Is this payback?" Quinn groans and she can just imagine the awkward table conversations there going to be now they think she has 'cramps'.

"You bet'cha," Santana winks as she opens her bedroom doors.

…

_Tuesday February 16th, 1971, 07:45 AM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

...

"So about your lifestyle," he wondered absentmindedly as he watched her study for her English final coming up, her head resting on his arm as they leaned against the headboard of her bed. Not that it really mattered, there was no teacher in the nation who would fail the president's daughter.

"My _lifestyle_?" A teasing grin formed on her lips, her eyebrows raised as she looked up from her book.

"We're different. That has never been a secret."

"So, we are. What are you trying to say?" She snaps at him. She sits up a little and frowns. He kisses the top of her head.

"That you should teach me how to be a gentleman or some shit and I'll teach you to be less.."

"Less what?" She turns her head to look at him and he smiles, "Less _ladylike_."

"How about I'll be me and you'll be you and we'll be us?"

"So there's an us now, huh?"

"There has been one since you kissed me, Mr. Puckerman. I only kiss boys I really, really like."

"For the record, you kissed me and we had met once before that, miss Fabray."

She shrugged flipping to the next page of her book, "You've never liked anyone after meeting them just once?"

"Just you," he squeezed her arm with his hand and pulled her closer. "I bet my mom would like you. She has always hated the fact I'm not more like Santana."

She shot him a confused look as she reached up to grab onto his hand that was still resting on her arm. She squeezed it. For a second she was afraid what the answer would be.

"She used to be exactly like me, but she changed."

"Why did she change?"

"It doesn't matter," he shakes his head, changing the subject, "So, I was thinking, you should really meet Finn and the others. They're extremely pissed I can't stop talking about you while they haven't even met you."

Confused on why he refused to talk about Santana she went along with it. "Can't stop talking about me? Well, will you look at that.." She teased him and he playfully jabbed his fingers into her side.

She let out a yelp, laughter erupting from her throat as he continued, "No, stop it!"

…

_Friday February 19th, 1971, 07:17 PM_

_AMC Theatre, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

"Shh," he told her as they entered the theatre, their hands tightly intertwined and sat down somewhere in the middle on two red, decayed chairs. It smelled like popcorn and pee and sweat and the movies involved a lot of fighting and weapons but she didn't see much of it anyway.

He kept kissing her and to be honest, she probably had enjoyed the kisses more than she would've the movie anyway.

Afterwards he took her out on a stroll and they held hands the entire time. They hadn't even said that much. She felt silly. Like a little schoolgirl that had never been kissed or had never held hands.

Sometimes she worried they didn't talk enough. That all they really did was physical stuff, and while she really enjoyed that,- it wasn't just all about that. Santana didn't like to talk about it and who else could she confide in?

But then he looked at her with his brown eyes and it was kind of strange,- but everything he didn't say kind of was in his eyes.

"I'm leaving to China in a few days. My dad has to pay a visit to the Chinese president."

"When are you leaving?"

"Our plane leaves at three."

"And you're just telling me now?" He let go of her hand and she quickly stuffed it in her pocket. She felt rejected and this felt like she at least restoring some of the shame. It was stupid.

"I'm sorry, I just didn't want everything to be different. I'll only be away for a few days," she sighed and he stopped walking. She turned around. "It's my first time flying," she offered, trying to smile as she swallowed her tears. She really was a baby.

"Fuck," he muttered and she stared at the abandoned street, her hands tucked away in her jacket pockets.

"I'm sorry," she said again, not knowing what else to say.

"It's not that you're going away is what bothers me,- just don't lie to me, okay?" He rubbed his face with his hand before catching up with her. "I'll take you home."

She didn't push the subject, because technically she hadn't lied, but she figured it had something to do with Santana or someone else he cared deeply about.

"You're not bothered I'm going away, then?" She tried to sound like she didn't care but she know she failed hard.

He let out a small chuckle, "I am, pretty girl, but I think we can survive a few days right?"

She nodded her head, a knot forming in her stomach. She always had this feeling she liked him more than he liked her. It wasn't a fun realization.

…

_Sunday February 20th, 1971, 02:34 AM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

...

"Do you have everything?" Santana asked and Quinn put her book down. She had kissed Puck for at least half an hour before he finally had to leave. Her lips still tingled but there was still a feeling in her guts that was fretting her. She wished she could just stay here, so the feeling would go away.

"Yes," she said, before quietly, and bitterly, adding, "Besides Puck."

"I heard that," Santana remarked and Quinn rolled her eyes. "Good for you."

"You're a fool, miss Fabray, a damn fool," she sounded irritated and Quinn groaned.

"What now, Santana? What did I do wrong, _this_ time?" Maybe it was the time or the fact she hadn't slept or the fact Puck had basically told her he could without her for days,- but she was cranky.

"You're sixteen years old,- do you really think he's all there is to life? He might be my cousin, but I can tell you,- he isn't the greatest guy around and you wouldn't be the first girl whose heart he breaks," the Latina didn't stop and all Quinn could feel was this stinging pain in her heart at every word she spit out. "Besides, you've known him for not even a month. You've spend every single day with him ever since the first day he came here and he's already turned you into a wreckless,-.." Her voice trailed off, as she shook her head.

"I really care about him."

"Like I said, you're sixteen. You have a whole life ahead of you. Do you really think he's going to be a part of that?" Santana kept putting more and more dresses into Quinn's suitcase and she wondered if they were going away for longer than a week.

"Like the girl you lost wasn't a part of yours, you mean?" Quinn snapped and Santana froze. She regretted saying it the second it came out but she hadn't been able to stop herself.

"Do you really think you can keep this, whatever it is, going on when your father finds out?" Santana narrowed her eyes, "He won't let him be a part of your life, miss Fabray,- you know that and you might as well _goddamn_ realize that now!" She threw the dress that was in her hands on the floor before storming out of Quinn's room.

Quinn sighed. Santana was right, but Quinn knew that if she could show her father what kind of great guy Puck really was, because he was, she wouldn't be right.

…

_Wednesday February 23th, 1971, 09:36 AM_

_Presidential Building, Beijing, China_

…

She rushed into President Zedong's office, knowing that if she got caught, she'd probably be murdered for spying and the future of her country wouldn't look as great as the purpose of this visit to begin with, had looked.

She picked up the phone and dialed a number she knew like the back of her hand.

"Hello?" She hadn't meant for her voice to quiver. She had meant for herself to be strong and mature about this. She hadn't even been gone for three days.

"Who's this?" The connection faltered a bit but she recognized that voice anywhere.

"I miss you so much," she breathed and she realized she had become a girl she had prayed for she wouldn't become. She didn't want to be this dependent of someone, of him, of _anyone_.

"I miss you too, pretty girl," he told her earnestly before adding a sincere, "but you shouldn't be calling me."

"I know," she sighed as she leaned her head back on the chair, mindlessly playing with the cord of the phone. "I just didn't know what else to do."

She heard some chatter and laughs on the background and wondered if he missed her as much as she missed him. "You know you'll always be my pretty girl, right?"

"I do," she bit her lip, spinning the cord around her finger, "I just care a lot about you, you know?"

"And I'll never know why."

"I want you to meet my father,- and my mother, even my sister. I want you to meet everyone that's important to me and I want to meet everyone that's important to you,- I, I want that."

"Okay," he said.

"Okay?" She let out a deep breath.

"Okay."

…


	4. Chapter 4: i cannot be returned

_( For my own purpose I have changed the date the president visits China from 1972 to 1971, sorry if it raised any confusion. Major thanks to __**BMontague, BEYONCE FAN51, **__**Randomly-hyper8711**_ _and __**xxiluvnileynjoejxx **__for their reviews! And another big thanks to my awesome beta Brooke because she finds the nicest way on the planet to tell me my grammar sucks. Check out her stories, if you like Quinn and Puck because she's an amazing writer: BMontague. Hope you guys enjoy the next chapter. :) )_

…

"**And I've seen it in the flights of birds, I've seen it in you,**

**The entrails of the animals, the blood running through,**

**But in order to get to the heart, I think sometimes you have to cut through."**

**- Heartlines by Florence and The Machine**

…

_Sunday March 7th, 1971, 04:43 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

…

Santana is chopping up food in the kitchen when Quinn leans against the door opening.

"Puck is coming over for dinner tonight," she tells her and Santana freezes, putting her knife down. She stares at the remains of food on the blade.

"Will you come pick out a dress with me?" Quinn wonders as she bites her lip and Santana picks up the knife, starting to chop a carrot in small pieces.

"Don't I always, Miss Fabray?"

"I wasn't sure you would want to," Quinn straightens her posture and her dress before crossing her arms.

"It's my job, isn't it?" Santana replied, her back still toward Quinn.

"Please don't be mad at me, Santana. I'm not doing anything wrong," Quinn tries. She was never a girl to plead for forgiveness nor was it ever needed, but sometimes she felt like Santana was the only person who really understood her so she needed her, especially her, to be okay with this.

"I know you're not, Miss Fabray. Besides, it's not really my place to judge," Santana puts the chopped up food away in the fridge before cleaning the counter.

Quinn sighs and as she is about to walk away, Santana tells her, "You two are exactly the same, you know, in some weird way."

"What do you mean?" Quinn looks over her shoulder to see if anyone's coming before turning back to look at Santana, who is now finally looking back at her. Her apron is stained with a orange liquid but she still wipes her hands on it.

"I never know what you're feeling, not really. Sure, I know when you're sad or when you're happy but not what is really going on inside of you, what you're really thinking. You keep your heart locked away, and when two people do that at the same time- nothing good ever comes out of it," Santana crosses her arms, leaning back on the counter, her ponytail shining in the bright light of the kitchen and a faint trail of sweat on her forehead.

Quinn's mouth opens but she doesn't really know what to say.

"Get out before you get in too deep, Miss Fabray, before somebody gets scarred for life," Santana takes off her apron and Quinn just stares at her as she puts it away. What was she supposed to say? What was she supposed to say when she felt like she was already in too deep to get out?

"You want feelings, Santana?" Quinn questions, her jaw tight and Santana turns back to watch her, raises an eyebrow challengingly. "Here is one, I really hate the way how you always call me Miss Fabray when I hope - when I know that you care about me more than that. More than just a - a job."

"How about that dress, Miss Fabray?" Santana sends her a small smile as she passes her to go upstairs but Quinn knows its fakes.

Quinn sighs again, running a hand through her hair. She knows those weren't the kind of feelings Santana meant, not really, but what was she supposed to say? Should she have said she loved Puck? That wouldn't have been true, because she didn't. She'd be crazy if she did.

Santana must have known that, too. That's why she suggested getting out before she got in too deep and that's why she froze when she told her Puck was coming over to dinner with her parents. What girl would bring over a boy she barely knew for a month, yet didn't love, to meet her parents?

Maybe she was already crazy.

…

_Sunday March 7th, 1971, 05:29 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

…

"He's here," Santana knocks on her door, seemingly nervous.

Quinn smiles at herself in the mirror, telling herself she can do this.

She goes downstairs to find Puck waiting for her by the door (she's pleasantly surprised when she sees him in a suit as she had half expected him to show up in his leather jacket) and he tells her she looks beautiful.

She is still blushing as they enter the living room.

"Daddy, Mom, Fran, this is Noah," she puts on her best smile as she looks from her family to Puck and she realizes she really wants them to like him.

"It's nice to meet you, sir," he tells her father as he shakes his hand before taking her mother's hand, he smiles, "You too, Mrs. Fabray. Now I finally know from whom Quinn got her beauty."

Her mother smiles and Quinn can't blame her, he is charming. Even her father looks impressed, even though he had looked disapproving when he first saw him. His expression stays firm though, Quinn knows he's not _that _impressed. She thinks he looks kind of funny, in a suit with his Mohawk and all, but she knows her father definitely doesn't seem amused.

Fran is next and Quinn prays to dear God she doesn't make some snippy comment about his hair or his clothes.

"It's nice to meet you, Miss Fabray. Quinn has told me so much about you," Puck tells her as he smirks at her. Quinn stifles a laugh because all that she has told him about Fran wasn't that great.

Fran smiles and squeezes his hand as he shakes it, "It's nice to meet you too, Mister..?" Her voice trails off and she glances at him expectantly. She and her sister were so different that on some days she actually couldn't stand her. Her sister enjoyed it— the power, the money, the attention, people calling her 'Miss Fabray' and being terrified of what she might do to them if they did something wrong. Quinn didn't.

"Puckerman."

"Noah Puckerman," she repeats as she lets go of his hand and purses her lips.

"Shall we?" their mother asks as she motions to the dining room.

Quinn nods her head, she looks over at Puck as her family makes her way over to the next room, "That was a nice one," she teases before mocking him, "_Now I finally know from whom Quinn got her beauty._"

"At first I wanted to pretend I thought she was Fran, give me some credit, pretty girl," he smirks and she stifles another laugh.

She takes his hand and leads him to the dining room, "Come on, they're waiting."

…

_Sunday March 7th, 1971, 05:48 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

…

Small talk like 'where are you from' and 'what are your hobbies' got them through the first ten minutes and up until the main appetizer everything was going okay.

"What fork is next?" Puck leaned closer to her, lowering his voice. She squeezes his thigh under the table, a small smile forming on her lips.

"Start on the outside and work your way in, remember?"

He rolls his eyes, "I own exactly one fork, maybe two. I don't get the big deal."

She shrugs a little, her eyes wandering to her parents, who are still engrossed in a conversation about some senator. "It's proper etiquette."

He raises his eyebrows at her and she slowly shakes her head to herself, not able to keep the smile of her face, she whispers, "Stop it."

"Stop what?" he whispers back teasingly.

"Stop staring."

He smirks, grabbing her hand under the table, "Are you blushing, pretty girl?"

"So, what do you do for a living?" Fran asked after finishing her third slice of French bread, she'd been eyeing them the entire time and Quinn knows she's out for blood.

"I'm a musician," he told her honestly as he let go off Quinn's hand and started cutting his steak. Her parents conversation slowly drained off as they watched Puck.

Something about the lack of contact made her rest her hand on his thigh again.

"Are you going to attend college?" her father asked, putting down his cutlery before Puck shook his head in response.

"When I turn eighteen I'm off to war, sir," he said, tightening his jaw and Quinn froze, putting her hand back on her lap.

She had never lost her appetite so fast.

Her father nodded his head, rubbing his chin as he leans back on his chair, "What about after that?"

"_If_ you come back, he means," Fran added, lifting her fork to her mouth. The statement felt like a thousand bees just stung Quinn's heart.

Puck shrugged, briefly glancing at Quinn before stating, "I don't know yet."

Her father nods before picking up his fork and knife but Quinn can see the way his jaw tightened and his eyes flickered to her mother is a disapproving way.

The silence is uncomfortable and the tension is so thick Quinn swore she could cut it with her knife.

Her mother sighs audibly before asking, "So, Noah, Quinn told me you love football?"

Quinn has never loved her mother more than in that moment and she sends her a small smile, earning one in return.

"Yes, Mrs. Fabray, I'm actually a wide receiver."

"Maybe you could watch the game with Russell? There's a game on later, right, honey?" She nudges her husband.

He sighs, "Yes, sure."

Judy's smile tightens, "Great, then that is settled. Us girls could use some time alone aswell."

…

_Sunday March 7th, 1971, 08:56 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

…

"Son," he tells Puck after an uncomfortable silence of exactly 41 minutes. "I just want you to give me an honest answer. I don't care about anything else – not where you come from or what you did or how much you make an hour, as long as you answer truthfully and I like the answer. Got it?"

Puck decides it's best if he just nods and so he does.

"Are you intentions with my daughter, above all, pure?" He raised his eyebrows, a stern look in his eyes and for a second Puck is actually afraid.

When that second passes he slowly nods his head again, "She's important to me, sir. I would never deliberately hurt her."

"I hope that's true for your sake, son, because if it's not – remember she's my little girl and I am the president," Russell gives him one more pointed look before looking back at the TV screen.

"So, what do you think of this Willie Franklin? He's a split end, right?"

…

_Sunday March 7th, 1971, 08:56 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

...

"What do you think they're talking about?" Quinn asks, trying to sound cool, but to be honest she had been building up the courage to ask this question for the past half an hour.

"You," Fran snorts as she puts down an ace of spades on the table.

"Daddy won't embarrass me, will he?" Quinn ignores her sister as she looks at her mother. What she really meant was more of a 'he won't threaten Puck will he' but she couldn't possibly say that without sending Fran off on another disapproving lecture about Puck.

"He probably will, Quinnie, that's part of being a father," her mother puts down her cards, reaching over to put her hand on Quinn's, "Don't worry, sweetie, your boyfriend's quite the charmer."

Absentmindedly she stares at the cards in her hands. It's the first time someone has actually called him her boyfriend and it feels funny. Funny and good and great actually. She smiles.

Fran frowns and Quinn knows she's jealous. She used to be nicer and she could still bring herself to be happy for her only sister. She used to be engaged to a reverend's son, Joseph and they had actually made it to the point where they had their pictures taken for the paper, ready to be printed, when he broke up with her. Now she was just bitter.

Her mother displays her cards, "I win."

…

_Sunday March 7th, 1971, 11:37 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

…

"Was it everything you dreamed it would be?" Santana mocked her as she tucked her in, caressing her forehead.

"Not really. I never really dreamed about the day I would take a boy home to meet my parents. With Sam it just happened really. With Puck everything is...different," Quinn chews on the inside of her cheeks, "Do you think my family liked him?"

"Sure," Santana tells her as Quinn yawns, "Doesn't mean they'll go easy on him, Miss Quinn."

"I know," she sighs, closing her eyes tiredly, she adds in a whisper, "I know you're right too, Santana. I know I'm too young."

"I was wrong. I told you your father wouldn't let you see him, right? By the end of the night they were practically boyfriend and girlfriend."

Quinn smiles as she nuzzles her nose against her soft pillow, "That's disgusting."

Santana smoothes Quinn's blanket, hesitatingly continuing, "You know your father thinks it's just temporary? That it's a phase, that you're rebelling."

"Hmm," she turns onto her side, "You know it's not, right?"

She sighs as she watches Quinn's breathe slowing down.

"Right."

…

_Thursday March 11th, 1971, 02:22 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

…

They we're just reading on her room, or rather she was and he was strumming away on her guitar to song without words, and then suddenly they were kissing.

It wasn't like she was a total prude before him, it really wasn't. But to say she was experienced was maybe a little too far-fetched. She had just never really been good at the physical stuff, she figured.

She didn't know where to put her hands most of the time because she was used to boys with much more hair nor did she want to give him the wrong idea by roaming them all of over his body.

"You can touch me, you know?" He pants into her ear before kissing her earlobe and then moving onto her jaw and then her neck.

"I k-know," she let out a small moan, resisting the urge to cover her mouth in embarrassment.

He stops, smirking at her. "Then why are you just laying there?"

She grabs his face and presses her lips against his and doesn't stop until she needs to gasp for air. He must have much more practice than her.

"Was that good enough?" She raises an eyebrow and he hides a smile, kissing the corner of her mouth, moving on to kiss down her neck. He sucks on her pulse point and she moans again, her hands on his waist, clenching his t-shirt.

He chuckles lowly, "Someone is going to hear."

"I don't care."

He kisses her again, his hand moving up her thigh and under her skirt. She surprises herself as she doesn't push it away, focusing more on the fact that his mouth was doing amazing things at the moment.

"P-Puck..."

She swallowed hard as his other hand was slowly moving up her ribcage. Suddenly she realized what they were doing and shoves him off her, quickly sitting up.

She swings her legs of the bed, her back facing him. Her cheeks taint red and she has never been so humiliated.

"I'm a virgin."

"I figured."

She hears the amusement in his voice and it really bothers her. It shouldn't, but it does. She runs a hand through her hair and she feels him shift on the bed before he pushes her cardigan off her shoulder, planting a kiss on the patch of skin that's exposed.

"Puck…"

"It really isn't a big deal," he mumbles and she abruptly pulls her cardigan back over her shoulder, covering herself before getting off the bed.

"It is to me," she frowns and he sighs, rubbing his face with his hand. "I think you should leave," she repeats firmly.

"Come on, baby, don't be like this. We can do something else?"

"Please just leave, Puck," she turns her head away from him and he sighs again, grabbing his shoes from the floor before placing a kiss on her cheek. She still doesn't look at him, she's too afraid she might cry.

"See you later."

…

_Thursday March 11th, 1971, 07:49 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

…

Santana comes into Quinn's room to fold and put away washed clothes in her closet, to find out she's been staring at the same page for ten minutes now.

"It was never a secret, _cariño_."

"What was?" She doesn't look up, just flips a page.

"That he isn't a virgin, Miss Quinn."

"I know, I just…"

"You hoped he was. It's okay. Every girl longs to be a guy's first and last. It's part of being a girl."

…

_Friday March 19th, 1971, 08:29 PM_

_Trevor's bar, Washington, D.C, the United States_

...

"I could get probably get killed for this," Santana mutters as they enter the crowded bar.

"Silly San, I would never let that happen," Quinn tells her teasingly as she roams the room for his beautiful smile.

Santana shoots her a disbelieving look but she doesn't notice.

"Quinn!" They hear from behind and they turn around to find Puck standing there, smirking. She wished she could stop her heart from pounding so loud and her hands from turning this clammy, but she can't. He's just so cute, but not at all, at the same time.

She realizes she's become a total cliché. The bad boy dates the good, Christian, celibate, (and rich and presidential) girl and she never wanted to become one, but somehow she has and she doesn't mind. It's complicated.

"Hey," she stumbles on a simple word and he leans down to hug her, and she squeezes his waist before he moves over to hug Santana.

"So you ready?" he turns back to face her, raising an eyebrow and she nods as he grabs her hand and tugs her along through the crowd.

"Whatever," Santana mumbles to herself and rolls her eyes before going over to the bar and ordering herself a shot.

They enter a room that says 'personnel only'. It's a small room with a small couch, a plant that looks like it hasn't had water in years, a dirty, old fridge and a few musical instruments. A few moving boxes are stacked against a wall in the back. They approach an Asian looking man who is playing with the strings of a bass that's lying on his lap, looking really focused.

"This is Mike," Puck tells her as he shoves Mike to make him aware of their presence. "He came here from Korea or Japan or some shit."

"Michael," Mike glares at Puck before turning to Quinn, "My name is Michael and I'm from _China_."

She thinks his accent is pretty cute.

"I'm Quinn," she smiles her best smile and he smiles back just in time before Puck pulls her over to a particularly tall person that's throwing darts at a picture (which looks like it came from a yearbook) of a guy with curly hair and a drawn on Hitler mustache and horns, like the devil.

Puck shares a quick laugh with his enormous friend about the picture before he turns back to face her, letting go of her hand, "And this is Finn, he plays the drum like no other but he's not real smart and a real bother."

"That rhymed," the guy Finn grins goofily before punching Puck in the arm, "Hey!"

"It's nice to meet you," Quinn says sticking out her hand and his large hand makes hers look so tiny.

"It's nice to meet you, too. Puck can't stop talking about you, it's _cute_," Finn smirks and Quinn figures it's payback and also that he's really, _really _tall. He must be at least 6'3.

"Dude!"

Quinn hides a smile before noticing another person in the room, recognizing him as the guy on the picture. "Who's that?" She nudges her head in his direction and Puck looks over his shoulder, rolling his eyes as he spots Jesse.

"You don't want to meet him, he's a douche."

"Then why is he in your band?" Quinn raises an eyebrow questionably, the hint of a smirk on her lips.

Finn shrugs, wriggling a dart out of the wall, "His father is rich, we're pretty much broke. You do the math."

"Oh shit, here he comes," Puck growls, his eyes narrowing.

"Well, well, well, what is this lovely lady doing in you pigs' company? Is she blind _and _deaf or did you just lure her in your van and kidnap her?" He smirks at Puck and Finn before grabbing Quinn's hand and placing a kiss on it. "I'm Jesse."

"Quinn," she scrunches her nose as he lets go of her hand. She quickly takes a hold of Puck's hand, "I'm Puck's girlfriend."

"Aren't you Quinn _Fabray_? As in _President _Fabray?" Jesse raises both of his eyebrows and Quinn tightens her jaw, nodding her head stiffly. "Then what in God's name are you doing with _Puckerman_? He doesn't even do serious," he spits out Puck's last name like the mere thought would make him vomit.

And _wow_, she thought, he really is a douche.

"Why don't you shut it, Jesse St. Sucks," Puck shoves his shoulder with his hand and Quinn holds on to his other hand even tighter.

"He's a, a good—_great _boyfriend," Quinn starts nervously, stumbling as she tries finding the right words, "And uh, he's talented, and funny, and handsome and he's really sweet- when he wants to be," she adds the last part with a small, high-strung giggle-like laugh.

Puck knows he's going to get shit over this from Finn and Mike forever, but he really likes the way she's defending him and how Jesse is gaping at her like she is explaining the cure for cancer to him. She's pretty awesome, he figures, even though she's is really clenching his hand to death right now.

Jesse mumbles a few words before he rips his picture of the wall and he yells at Finn, mentioning that he is '_so immature and untalented_' and '_he'll burn in hell for mocking his outstanding physique_' and she can't help but laugh along with Puck and his friends as they watch him stalk off towards the non-exclusive part of the bar.

"Told you," Puck states as he swings his arm over her shoulder and pulls her closer after letting go of her hand.

"Yes, Puck, you're right, it's because you're a good- no, no, a great boyfriend!"

"And you're really talented and funny and handsome and so sweet," Mike adds in his accent as he swings the bass onto his back and crosses his arms mockingly.

"Yeah, you're totally so, so _sweet_."

...

_Friday March 23rd, 1971, 12:56 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

…

She notices music is kind of a big part of them, of the '_us_' that they are.

He sings to her a lot, and he makes her sing. Even when he's not around. Santana thinks it's funny, but she really just feels immature for feeling that way. She can't really describe it but it's like he shouldn't just be the _only _thing that makes Quinn happy. Sure, she still smiles whenever a seed she planted actually grows to a beautifully colored flower and she still enjoys watching '_Here's Lucy_' when it's on the television, but it's not the same kind of happiness.

"_Well she's all you'd ever want, she's the kind they'd like to flaunt and take to dinner," _he sung to her that lazy afternoon as they sat in the garden. Whenever her father _did_know he was around (she befriended a lot of the bodyguards after all these years and sometimes they pretended to get coffee so she could take him up to her room) and the weather was nice outside, they sat there.

"Stop," she warned him, raising a finger, her eyes wide.

"_Well she always knows her place," _he raised his eyebrows teasingly, and she glared at him, crossing her arms as she sat up. Her sister had played the song over and over and over on her record-player for the past few weeks ever since it came out. She was sick of it, to say the least, and he knew that.

"_She's got style, she's got grace, she's a winner, she's a lady," _he poked her side and she smacked his arm away as she covered her ears, closed her eyes and laid down on the slightly damp grass.

He hung his head above hers, as he smirked, "_Whoa whoa whoa, she's a la-," _she leaned up, resting her weight on her elbows as she brushes her lips against his. She smiles provocatively at him and soon he leans down and it only takes a few second for their lips touch again.

Maybe she does _kind of _like this song.

…

_Saturday March 29th, 1971, 10:14 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

…

She worries a lot. Especially at night. She thinks she's going crazy.

They see each other almost every day and she knows she can trust him, or at least she should, and should be able to. But every time Santana mentions _another _ex-girlfriend, she keeps hearing Jesse's annoying voice in her head, telling her that '_he doesn't even do serious' _and she just doesn't feel enough. Particularly when she can't give him what he obviously wants.

So she distances herself.

At first he doesn't really think anything of it, he just figures she's on her period or something. He's a guy after all. Then he notices and he doesn't really do anything, because he doesn't know how. At least not without making a complete fool out of himself. He's never been someone's boyfriend, not in a period of four years, not for this long, not in this way, not at all really.

He tries, he does. He mentions '_the way she's been acting_' but she takes it the wrong way and he doesn't see her for three days. That's not what he wants, at all. He even talks to Santana, something he really doesn't enjoy and she just tells him to '_give her space_', like she's his cat or some shit.

It's all bullshit so one Saturday he just bluntly asks her. "Why are you so distant?"

He knows she's tough and strong and that she doesn't really let people in. But they've been dating for almost two months and he feels like he doesn't know a lot of stuff about her, like she keeps him out of her life in some way. It frustrates him more than anything, and not in a good way.

First it's quiet, then there's a lot of yelling and lastly there's the truth. "I just, I don't want to be with someone who constantly makes me think he could leave any minute now."

"I won't leave you,_Q_. Why would you even think that?" He calls her 'Q' and it makes him the only one who's ever called her that and she kind of likes it. "I mean, I'm a total badass, but I'm not stupid enough to walk out on a girl like you."

"A girl like me?" She shakes her head, confused.

"Yeah.. A girl that breaks up with _you_, not the other way around. You never break up with a girl like you."

She sighs, not looking at him, and sits down. He takes a seat next to her. He really likes her hair. It's shiny and blond and sometimes curly. At night he imagines her, smiling and laughing and her hair flowing behind her. He's never _actually _thought about a girl fully dressed at night.

"Look, I'm not good at all of this... Like, talking and crap. It's not me. It will never be me," he pauses, sighing as he rubs his face, "I just- it's like I told you. This_isn't_just another hook-up for me."

After that they don't really talk about it anymore and just go back to normal and for the first time in his life, his words have actually mattered.

…

"**This fantasy, this fallacy, this tumbling stone,**

**Echoes of a city that's long overgrown.**

**Your heart is the only place that I call home,**

**I cannot be returned."**

…


	5. Chapter 5: you know that we're doomed

_( Thanks to__**xxiluvnileynjoejxx, QuickSapphire **__and __**BMontague **__for the reviews! I cannot say enough how much it means to me :). Also another big thank you to my amazing beta Brooke (BMontague)! Enjoy. )_

...

"**It's not a silly little moment, it's not the storm before the calm.**

**This is the deep and dying breath of this love that we've been working on."**

**- Slow dancing in a burning room by John Mayer**

…

_Monday March 31rd, 1971, 12:18 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

…

"So, Santana told me your birthday is coming up," Quinn swallowed hard as she peeked over the edge of her book, glancing over at him carefully and quickly. He was flipping through the channels on the television in the living room. They both sat on different couches and in the White House that meant you were almost 13 feet apart. Too far to see a genuine expression.

The prospect of him turning eighteen should be joyous, not like this, not like a '_maybe this is your last birthday_' or '_you'll probably get shot and die, but here's a cake_' kind of birthday. He should be excited.

He shrugged, not even bothering to look at her, "She's right."

"What do you usually do on your birthday?"

"I just go somewhere and get wasted."

"Why?"

He sighs, finally settling on some sport game, "It's not because I'm turning eighteen, trust me. Every birthday is just a reminder of the day my dad left us."

Her face scrunched up because her birthdays were always filled with friends and family and cake and presents, lots of presents. They were fun and she always felt happy on her birthdays. They were part of growing up. A special day, all about you. It pained her to hear he didn't have those same memories.

"It's no big deal," he added easily, "Honestly."

"It is to me."

"You keep saying that, pretty girl," he retorts, humor in his voice, his eyes fixed on the television.

She doesn't really know what to say after that.

...

_Sunday April 6th, 1971, 03:34 AM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

…

At night, she dreams about him.

She dreams about his kisses and the way he holds her hand and the way his arms move when he wears one of his tight shirts.

To make it worse she also dreams about his smile and his eyes and his voice and his lames jokes and it just hits her.

It isn't just physical, he gives her something no other boy has, or can. That's what makes it different.

Not because he's half Hispanic and still manages to be Jewish or because he's a bad boy or because he's poor and she's none of those things, but because he makes her dream about him. Not just his looks, but everything about him.

She has never had that before.

…

_Friday April 11th, 1971, 03:09 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

…

"If you could be anything, what would you be?" She wonders as her fingernails trail along his arm, her head comfortably resting on his shoulder as they sit on the back porch.

"The president," he mutters and she hits his stomach.

"That's not funny!"

He laughs and she can't help but laugh along. He takes a piece of her bang and puts it behind her ear as he leans down to kiss her head, "I don't know really. Maybe a musician."

"Maybe?" She shifts her head a little, so she can look at his face.

"When you grow up without a father and you have to start working at the age of twelve to take care of your family, you don't really dare to dream, you know?"

"I'm sorry," she tells him after a moment as she moves her head to his chest, trying to count all the flowers in the garden. It's an impossible task but it keeps her from feeling like a complete idiot.

"What about you?" he asks, sitting up a little, moving carefully as to not disturb her. He doesn't sound angry or upset, actually kind of interested.

"When I was little I wanted to be a princess," she smiles at the memory before scrunching up her face, "Now I just – I just want to matter, you know? I want a life people will write books and direct movies about."

"Thanks to me now you have," he responds and she huffs, shaking her head as she sits up, crossing her arms, "It's _not_ like that, Puck."

"I know. You just look really sexy when you're angry."

It's like that all the time you know, they don't really talk about anything serious for longer than a few minutes. She likes it like that, but she knows it can't last forever. So she uses it to her advantage for as long as she can.

She closes her eyes as she shakes her head to herself, a faint smile on her lips.

"Whatever."

"You know you wanna kiss me."

…

_Tuesday April 15th, 1971, 01:08 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

...

"Hey Quinnie," her mother knocks on the door as she walks into her bedroom. "I see Puck isn't around?"

"Mama, what are you talking about, I would never-" she stutters and her mother just raises an eyebrows as she straightens her skirt before sitting down at the end of Quinn's bed.

"I live here too you know," she reaches up to take a hold of her necklace, a small gold cross, "These walls seem to speak now and then."

"Was it Fran?" Quinn rolls her eyes as she sits up, putting her magazine down. Her mind wasn't really set to Jane Fonda's new beau anyway. She changed lovers faster than her sister changed dresses.

Her mother lets out a laugh as she pats her leg, "No, I'm pretty sure I saw him plant his lips on yours in the middle of the hallway once. He doesn't have much subtly, does he?" Quinn's cheeks tainted red as her mother continued, "Mr. Schuester was conveniently in the kitchen, pouring himself some coffee. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?" Judy smiled knowingly and Quinn was sure all her blood was rushing to her face right then.

"Oh, Quinnie, you've always had your ways of getting what you wanted." Her mother's eyes turned soft as she put the back of her hand on Quinn's cheek and caressed it sweetly.

"It comes with the beauty, mama," Quinn laughed but there wasn't any humor in her voice.

"You're not just a pretty girl, Quinn. There's more to you. People will realize that sooner or later," Judy told her honestly as she put both of her hands in her lap.

Growing up she had been a real daddy's girl, and she guessed she still was, but she wouldn't be able to live without her mother. She couldn't imagine a life without her, because for every great and bad memory, she'd been there. Santana had been there, too, but it was different, really. Her mother had this trust in her, gave her this sense of calm, that made her feel comforted and safe.

"Like they'll treat me differently when they realize I'm the president's daughter?"

"You sound bitter," her mother states, a frown on her face before reaching out to grab Quinn's hand, "I hope I haven't raised you this way."

She squeezes her hand and Quinn looks at the pattern of her comforter. Flowers.

"You decide what labels you, Quinnie. It's up to you to show people what you're made off. You're young now, but when you're older, it'll be your time."

"Yes, we've all seen how that worked out for Frannie," she pulls her hand back, and her mother looks taken a back for a moment, "She ends up alone and bitter and as a complete and utter joke."

"That's Fran… That's not you," Judy clarifies as she stands up and dusts of her dress. Her mother was all about appearances. "Don't be afraid to believe in a happy ending, Quinnie."

"I do."

"Because of some boy perhaps?" Judy says and for some reason, when it comes to Puck, things really set her off easily.

"He makes me happy, mama," Quinn snaps as she rises from the bed herself.

"I know he does. But just because he does now, doesn't mean he will when you're all grown up, Quinnie."

"Don't do that!" Quinn bites back, "Don't talk to me like that! In that patronizing way like I'm a little child," she tightens her jaw, her fists balling. Her mother's face pales, her eyes stern.

She hated this, she hated it. How could a person she loved so much treat her with such little respect? Her mother treated her like she was still eight years old, not capable of love, back when they didn't live in the White House yet. She was belittling her and it hurt. It stung and it ached and it hurt so much. Even worse, she was belittling her choice to be with Puck.

"Don't tell me you think this could actually last, Quinn?"

"You tell me, mother, could it?"

Her mother sighed, pursing her lips before bluntly stating, "It's time for tea in an hour or so. Wear something nice."

"Whatever, _mother_."

"Just…" Her mother pauses, a familiar glint of concern back in her eyes, "Be careful, Quinnie."

…

_Tuesday April 15th, 1971, 01:25 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

...

She calls him up, asks him to pick her up and she knows she probably shouldn't. Her father would surely find out she'd been away and it would only make matters worse. She knew her father didn't like it when she left the house, hence the heavy surveillance when she did. At least, when he knew she went out.

You would think the president knows everything, but fact is, he knows very little of the truth, especially when it came to his own home. Quinn would like to keep it like that.

"Where you wanna go?" He asks from his position behind the wheel as he reaches over to open the door for her.

She gets in, shrugging, "Anywhere."

She isn't actually sure where they go, but it's somewhere far. Far away from people and houses and companies and pollution and her family and – everything. It's a large open field, with small flowers in every color you could think of everywhere.

He takes a blanket out of the back of his truck and lays it out and they both sit down.

"You keep taking me to places I've never been," she says as she admires the environment. She spots a small bird in a big tree. She feels like that sometimes, you know, a small girl in a big, big, world. It feels like she doesn't even matter now and then.

He shrugs as he leans back on his elbows, "I guess I'm just trying to appreciate the view around here, you know. I've heard it ain't as pretty in Vietnam." He glances over at her briefly and she wonders if he's talking about her or their actual surroundings.

"Are you scared?" She asks after a moment, casting her head over her shoulder but she doesn't look at him, instead stares at the blanket. She picks and pulls at the grass next to her.

"I'm not afraid of dying," he says after a while. She swallows hard, biting on the insides of her cheeks to keep herself from crying. It stings, hearing that he doesn't care. At least, not really. Not like she does.

"But I am afraid of losing what I might leave behind, though," he adds after a brief pause, turning his head to look at her.

"Maybe you don't have to go," she offered, finally looking at him.

He chuckles, smiling as he shakes his head, "I'm pretty sure it's mandatory, babe."

"What if the war ends? What if it ends before – before you turn eighteen?" she tries and the hope in her eyes breaks his heart.

"I hope it does, Q," he sighs, sitting up as he tugs on her hand, pulling her into his chest. "But we have to be realistic here. I don't think it will."

She presses her head against his chest, closing her eyes as she breathes in the smell of him – of Puck. It's musky and kind of sweaty but in a nice way, and to her, it smells really good.

"I really don't want you to go," she whispers, her hand resting on his stomach, drawing small circles with her fingernail.

He places a kiss on the top of her head, squeezing her shoulder as he looks as far as he can, shapes fading into a blur.

She listens really carefully, her eyes still closed, making sure to remember the sound of his heartbeat.

…

_Friday April 23rd, 1971, 09:16 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

…

"You've been avoiding me all day," her grip on the phone is making her knuckles turn white as she leans her head against the door.

The sound of loud music draws out his voice a little. It must be a busy night at the bar. "No, I haven't."

"Yes, you have, Puck! You made up some dumb excuse about not having time to see me this morning because you needed to change your truck's oil and then I have to hear from Santana that you're out having the time of your life with Finn," she retorts, she ponders about why he insists on acting like a jerk.

"Jesus, Quinn! I don't have to spend every waking minute with you," he hisses, looking over his shoulder at the sea of people making sure no one familiar is in earshot.

"Listen," she sighs, licking her dry lips, "I didn't call you to fight. I just called to tell you '_happy birthday_' and I wish that instead of getting drunk this year, maybe you could have spent it with me."

"Finn got his deployment letter today. I've been trying to calm his overly dramatic and annoyingly loud girlfriend for an hour now and Finn – he just really needed a friend," he tells her calmly.

She looks at the ceiling, trying not to cry and she deciphers that all war has brought her is tears. "What about when you get your letter, Noah? Who is going to be there for me?"

"_Quinn_…" He breathes and he sounds sad, hurt even.

Her voice breaks as she tells him, "H–Happy birthday, Noah. I wish I could have told you in person."

…

_Friday April 23rd, 1971, 11:36 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

…

She's almost at four-hundred-and-sixty-two sheep when she feels him enter her bed, his arm slipping around her waist.

He doesn't say anything for a while, but her heart is pounding so fast she can't do anything but be aware of his presence.

"Santana let me in," he whispers against the back of her head, "She told the two surveillance guys we ran into we had a family crisis. She's a good actress." He smiles to himself a little.

She didn't say anything, not really knowing what he expected of her. Maybe he would think she was asleep.

"I am sorry for being an inconsiderate, insensitive jackass earlier," his voice is softer and different from how it usually was.

She opens her eyes, intertwining her hand with his, somberly and sorrowfully telling him, "It's okay. I'm sorry for being a needy, selfish _bitch_."

"You're not a bitch," he kisses her shoulder, adding as joyfully as possible, "I made it on time."

A small smile forms on her lips as she glances at the clock on her wall. A quarter to twelve.

She sits up, turning to look at him. He does the same. It's dark but she can still make out his form as she reaches out to put a hand on his cheek. She leans forward, pressing her lips against his shortly before leaning her forehead against his. "Happy birthday."

"You just made this the best birthday ever, baby," he grins and she kisses him again, just because she can, just because he's here.

…

_Sunday April 25th, 1971, 10:24 PM_

_National City Christian Church, Washington, D.C, the United States_

…

In church they pray for the soldiers they've lost and the soldiers that are at war. Her father doesn't come along with them, and he hasn't for a while now. He has more important things to do, so he claims.

Still, people thank them after the service for her father's great work and for protecting their country and his compassion and bravery. She feels sick. She doesn't want this to be a reality. What's even worse was that, before Puck, she hadn't even put any real thought to it. She thought war was just a part of life. She hadn't realized how all the wives and girlfriends felt, and the children, the parents, the friends…

Now that she did, she didn't want war to be a part of life. She even knew it didn't have to be, but maybe that was just easier. Fighting, instead of talking. Because talking might bruise your ego or damage your pride. While fighting just bruises the lives of family that is left behind and only damages a few thousand soldiers, if not worse. She hated herself for that, for thinking like that. Was she such a horrible person?

…

_Thursday May 26th, 1972, 02:45 PM_

_Tent 134B, Saigon region, South Vietnam_

…

He wakes up to the sounds of yells and screams and guns going off. One of the guys on his team throws a machine gun his way, tells him their camp's being invaded so there's nothing else he can really do but get up and fight.

It's dark and smoky outside and he can see his breath so he knows it's pretty cold, but his adrenaline is running through his veins so he doesn't really notices. He sees a few guys already on the ground, face down, blood everywhere and he holds in the urge to vomit before one of his buddies, Ryder, pulls him along behind one of the army trucks. He can never get used to the smell of blood and destruction.

"Snap out of it, Puckerman, you'll get yourself killed," he tells him and Puck almost laughs. Ryder is a small guy, with brown locks and the highest voice he has ever heard from a guy- a guy he would've thrown into a dumpster in a high school or would've made fun of at the bar- but he's tougher than him right now. Ryder has always been tougher. He recalls how he met him on the first day of training, and how they bonded over something stupid like football or their shoe size, he doesn't even remember the specifics. Ever since then, they'd play cards and he'd listen to him blab about his high school sweetheart and smile at all the pictures of her and all the days just kind of blended together.

Here in Vietnam, there really weren't any losers, or outsiders, because everyone was in the same situation. In a damn camp in the middle of nowhere, the same damn food every night, the constant fear of dying, the lack of knowledge of why they were really fighting to begin with and the lack of family and friends. No one here judged anyone for his past or looks or race. Not even him. He'd never made friends this quick. But him and Ryder? He was kind of like Finn. You know, someone he had known for ages, except he hadn't known Ryder for ages. Kind of like Quinn.

He almost laughs, but he doesn't.

He snaps out of it quickly, because this isn't a funny situation at all. Not even remotely. The Vietnamese have invaded their camp, and if he's lucky, they'll kill him fast.

Ryder tells him to cover for him as he tries to make his way towards another truck, signing for him to follow. He shoots a few of those Vietnamese bastards, but he can't help but think they don't know either. They don't know why they're fighting, and they're afraid to die without being able to say goodbye to the ones they love. They're all in the same situation and none of them know how to stop.

After a while, the shooting and yelling tones down a bit and Ryder tells him he's going to check to see if the coast is clear. "Be careful," Puck tells him, gripping his arm tightly, because dying is the one thing here that was the same as at home. When you did, you were really gone.

He doesn't really know how it happens, but he hears Ryder scream out in pain and he runs over to where he is, realizing his choice was so damn stupid and reckless, because he comes face to face with about ten Vietnamese.

He doesn't drop his gun, just kneels down next to Ryder. His eyes are wide, his face pale and a trail of blood is running out his mouth and down his chin.

"Fuck," he yells as he discovers the gaping wound in his chest, pressing down on it to make the bleeding stop. "Ryder, don't die, not here, not now. Think about Marley! God-damnit."

They start yelling to him in a foreign language but he doesn't care, he grips onto Ryder's shirt and he just coughs, and groans. "C'mon, Ryder, say something!"

…

_Tuesday April 27th, 1971, 10:24 AM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

…

She sighs, blowing her hair out of her face for the third time in five minutes.

"A penny for your thoughts," he smiles at her as plays with her hand, his thumb brushing circles around each of her knuckles repeatedly.

"I hate my hair," she tells him, using her free hand to tuck her bangs behind her ear once again. "I think I might get it cut."

"I love your hair. You look beautiful."

"Mhmm," she answers, a smile playing on her lips. She didn't really know what to tell him when he complimented her. People have called her beautiful all her life, but when he said it, it meant something so much more.

"A nickel for a kiss," she bites her lip. Her eyes are teasing and innocent at the same time and it makes him chuckle.

"So now you want to pay me for my good deeds?"

"Who said anything about good?"

She raises her eyebrow and he knows she's just kidding but he feels this need to prove himself to her. He leans forward and connects their lips. She smiles into the kiss, her arms moving around his neck and pulling him closer.

"Shit, I have to leave," he mutters against her lips as he looks at the clock on her bedroom wall. "Band practice," he clarifies as she kisses him again.

"Can't they wait?"

"I canceled three times on them already, Q," he chuckles but it's soon muffled by her mouth once again.

"Fine," she tells him, abruptly pulling away, a smirk on her face as she crosses her arms. "Have fun."

She licks her lips, causing his gaze to follow the movement of her tongue. "No, no, baby, I'll stay," he leans in again, closing his eyes but she pushes him away.

"You had your chance, Puckerman. It's time to leave," the smirk on her face is taunting and it makes his lips itch for more. She pushes him off the bed, following him to her bedroom door.

"Bye," she tells him and he knows she's not kidding. He's praying to God for some self control around her and she's being an enormous tease.

He sighs, rubbing his disappointed face tiredly, "Bye," he says almost questioningly and she leans in and kisses his cheek before slamming the door in his face. He shakes his head to himself as he leaves for the main exit.

She can't stop smiling as she lies down on her bed. The feeling that someone actually wants her, _her_, was so amazing. She wished it would never stop. She plays with the fringe on her dress as she stares at the ceiling, over thinking their whole morning together.

Still not able to wipe the grin of her face, she whispers to herself, "A dime if you tell me that you love me."

…

"**We're going down, and you can see it too.**

**We're going down, and you know that we're doomed.**

**My dear, we're slow dancing in a burning room."**


	6. Chapter 6: shooting in the dark

_( big thanks to _**Saab08, gleeothfriends90210cccjsAMD, BMontague, littleredwritinggleek **and **xxiluvnileynjoejxx **_for the reviews. it means a lot. another big thanks to my beta Brooke ;) She is amazing! )_

…

"**I've seen love go by my door, it's never been this close before**

**Never been so easy or so slow, been shooting in the dark too long**

**When something's not right it's wrong**

**You're gonna make me lonesome when you go,"**

**- You're gonna make me lonesome when you go by Bob Dylan**

...

_Friday April 30th, 1971, 07:12 AM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

...

"Santana?"

"Mhmm"

"When did you know?"

"When did I know what, _cariño_?" She turns her head, blowing her bangs out of her hair.

"That you were in love."

"I don't know…" Santana trailed off. She wasn't sure if she should be discussing this with her. She wasn't sure if she even knew the answer.

"You don't know or you don't know if you should tell me?"

"It's when," she puts down her cleaning utensils, and watches the soap drip down the glass of the kitchen window. "It's when you can't remember what you did with your time before you met them. You remember the things you did, but not why you were content with doing them for the rest of your life. When that person touches you- you see a future, even if you haven't thought about it before- you see everything with that person. A house, a marriage, children- maybe something completely different. Something you've always wanted or something you never thought you would," she chews on the inside of her cheek, her gaze landing on Quinn's, "Most of all, it's when you stop being selfish, rethink everything twice, to make sure that, that person, doesn't get hurt by your actions. When you'd rather be hurt and miserable the rest of your life as long as that person never has to go through that."

"Santana?"

"Yes, Miss Quinn?" Santana raises her eyebrows, smiling, being able to contain a small laugh by pinching her arm as she leans back against the counter.

"You should be a poet."

"You should learn when to shut up."

…

_Monday May 1st, 1971, 03:56 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

...

She feels his arms wrap around her waist from behind as he places a kiss on her shoulder, his warm breath creating goosebumps all over her skin.

"Hey pretty girl."

His tan arms pull her closer against him as he places another kiss on her shoulder, this time closer to her neck. He can feel her breathing change and it makes him smile against her bare skin.

"H-hey."

The urge to kiss him is literally making her lips itch. She can still feel the taste of him on her lips even though it had been hours, almost days since they last kissed.

His hands go up her arms slowly and she almost shivers before turning around and putting her arms around his chest, squeezing him as she rests her head on his shoulder. She feels his fingertips press into her back as she whispers in his ear, "If you ever leave me, please take me with you."

"You're mine," he retorts softly and she nods into his chest before placing gentle kisses along his jaw line, her hands on his cheeks. His hands find their way to her hips, and they fit perfectly there.

She connects their lips, not before stating, "I am yours."

…

_Wednesday May 3rd, 1971, 09:56 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

…

It's been a long day of fulfilling her duties as the daughter of a President- her face hurts from the smiling and her feet hurt from her high heels- when she spots him waiting for her in the garden.

She hurries towards him, smiling yet again as she throws her arms around him. She kisses him and it isn't until she doesn't feel him kiss back that she realizes something's wrong.

She pulls away and takes a step back, her heart racing. It's now that she notices Santana is standing on the porch, a few feet away from them.

She runs a hand through her hair as she looks from Santana to Puck and from Puck to Santana, "Wh-what's going on?"

"I'll give you a moment," Santana says, barely audible as she clears her throat and moves inside the house, just in time for Quinn to realize her face is red and her eyes are dull. She looks over at Puck and it dawns in on her.

"No, no, no," she whispers to herself as tears start falling from her eyes, shaking her head rapidly.

She feels his arms wrap around her but she can't move, she can't think, she can't breathe.

"It came in the mail this morning, Santana said it was best to tell you right away when you got back home- so here I am," he chuckles against her hair as he puts his hand on the back of her head but she knows it's not genuine. Her body's shaking from the sobs and he pulls her closer, kissing her head, "I'm so sorry."

…

_Wednesday May 3rd, 1971, 10:23 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

…

He moved them to the porch a few minutes back. Her eyes are closed as she grips onto his shirt tightly.

"I can't believe this is happening."

"Q…"

"I thought as long as we didn't talk about it I wouldn't have to deal with it," she squeezes her eyes shut, more tears gliding down her cheeks.

"Just because I am going to war doesn't mean I am going to die," he clarifies. And out loud it sounds so much worse. The prospect of death doesn't seem so real- so close- so possible if it just stayed in her head.

She pulls away from him, biting her lip, "You don't understand, you don't. You don't understand how much you mean to me. Just the thought that you _might_ die," she pauses, "it's too much to bear."

"It's not me you should be angry with, Q," he tells her.

She lets out a small humourless laugh, "I know, trust me. I know." She gets up and storms inside, ignoring his pleas for her to stop.

…

_Wednesday May 3rd, 1971, 10:27 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

…

She storms down the familiar halls of her home, not even bothering to knock as she barges into her father's office. She knew he'd be there, where else would he be? Her father was always working.

"Stop this war, right this second," she yells, slamming her hands on his desk.

Her father looks up, his eyes looking right through her. His voice is steady but she can hear the small trembling of anger he's trying to hide, "Excuse me, young lady?"

"Puck just got his deployment letter- he's been drafted, daddy," she tells him, more tears threatening to fall any second. "He's been drafted…"

"Don't be so selfish, Lucy Quinn Fabray! Don't be so selfish and childish because of some, some boy," he spits, taking off his reading glasses and she sees the bulging vein in his neck.

"He's not some boy, daddy!" She feels like a little girl, stamping her feet and balling her fists because things are not going her way. "I love him," she confesses to her father and herself, her voice breaking. Her throat feels dry, her hands are shaky, her head is spinning and her eyes sting.

It's like reality hits her right that moment. She's in her father's office, yelling at him for a war that's not his fault, that can't be stopped just because she says so- not even if her father wanted it to stop. She's going to lose Puck. It dawns on her and she doesn't feel okay at all. She doesn't feel like crying anymore because this is inevitable. He's going to have to leave and she's going to have to stay behind.

"You will not see him again," Russell rises from his seat slowly, his eyes narrowed.

"You can't forbid me to see him," she retorts and it's even more frightening now, eye to eye.

"You want to bet?" He yells and she closes her eyes momentarily, keeping her breathing steady as she tries not to yell.

"Daddy, please don't do this- he's going away in a few weeks, maybe even days- please don't take everything away from me."

"Everything?" He remarks questioningly, "Quinn, he's _not_ your everything. Look at you, you are beautiful, you are smart, you are better than this."

"Than him?"

"Yes! It's-"

She interrupts him, "I knew it! I knew it all along! I knew you weren't going to accept him just because he's Jewish or colored or because he doesn't dream of being a doctor or a lawyer or something that's worth bragging to your 'friends' about. Just because he isn't like _you_ dreamed. Just because you're scared, you're scared that in spite of all of that, he might turn out to be a better man than you."

"This discussion is over. You won't see him anymore, and that's final," he yells as he points his finger at her, his face slowly turning red.

She huffs, lightly shaking her head, "And you call me childish, daddy?"

"Go to your room, and don't try to run off again. Don't think I'm not on to your little friendships with the bodyguards. I'm smarter than that. Those are over, just like you and the boy."

"What's going on here?" Judy's appears from behind her, putting a hand on Quinn's shoulder as she stares at Russell. Quinn casts her head away, not able to look at him anymore without feeling this- this hatred.

"Nothing," he spats as he sits down, putting on his reading glasses as he continues reading and writing.

She feels her mother tense and she knows she knows what just went down.

"Let's get you to bed, Quinnie," she guides her out of the door and she passes Santana in the hallway on the way to her bedroom. She doesn't smile or give her an encouraging look, her eyes are hard and her lips are formed into a tight line.

This is serious. She knows it, her mother knows it, Quinn knows it, probably even Puck knows it- Everybody knows. Everybody knows this really was over.

"I told you to be careful, Quinnie, why didn't you listen?"

…

_Thursday May 4th, 1971, 05:47 AM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

…

"What are you doing here so early?"

Quinn squints her eyes because of the bright early sunlight as she wraps her sweater tighter around herself. Her eyes are thick with sleep and she didn't even bother to get dressed or do her hair.

Santana blows out smoke, a cigarette in between her middle- and index finger. Quinn doesn't answer.

"Couldn't sleep?"

She still doesn't answer, she just leans against the door opening and stares at the damp grass with a frown as she focuses on the birds chirping in the garden. How can they do that? How can they just chirp so happily while the world is so miserable and crappy and _goddamn_ depressing?

"You want one?" Santana hold out a pack of cigarette, her eyebrows raised and Quinn stares at her before taking one.

She coughs the first time she inhales, and the second time, after that it just stings her throat and makes her eyes water but she doesn't care- any other pain than the pain in her chest right now was great.

"So you're officially a big girl now."

"Because I'm smoking?"

Santana shakes her head, as she leisurely exhales the smoke. "No because you finally stood up against your father."

...

_Friday May 5th, 1971, 08:14 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

…

She tries to call him at the bar after Santana tells her he's leaving on Monday but he doesn't pick up. She debates whether she should try again but she's afraid of what he sounds like- because she had been trying to forget.

She tries to read but every story seems the same and after a while she just starts crying because why can't Juliet be with Romeo without them both dying?

She tries to study, but after half an hour off staring at the same French verbs she throws her book against the wall and she cries again because she doesn't remember ever feeling so angry that she turned violent.

She tries writing, too. Stories, songs, anything.

'_Love is like you, perfect for anyone but me. Why didn't I see, this was never meant to be_' she writes down and she realizes she sucks at that, too. Tears stain the ink letters and she scrunches up the paper, throwing it off her bed.

She tries to do _anything_ but somehow he always ends up back in her mind and all she can do is cry.

…

_Sunday May 7th, 1971, 11:22 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

…

Santana shakes her awake and she can't tell what time it is, just that it's late and it's cold.

"Do you want to see him?" She whispers and for a moment Quinn considers she's dreaming before she nods yes.

"Hurry up, Goolsby is in my room waiting for me, he'll get suspicious in a few minutes."

Quinn does what she says and quickly throws on a sweater, slipping into a pair of flats.

Santana guides her downstairs, gets her out swiftly and gives her directions and then it's time for her to go. She briefly wonders if Santana will do anything with Goolsby or not but decides that Santana knows she shouldn't do anything for her- that that'd be her own choice. She hopes she knows that.

Quinn runs along the streets, follows the pavement, follows Santana's voice in her head telling her to go 'right then left another left' until she reaches the bar. She races up the stairs and knocks on the door. Running a hand through her impatiently she waits for him to open the door before flying into his arms.

"I missed you," she breathes into his ear and his calloused hands run over her back as he asks her what she was doing here.

She knows he doesn't really want to know and she just wants to be as close to him as possible. She hugs him tighter before pulling away and kissing him hard. She just wants to remember every little part of him, like she had wanted to know everything about him when she met him, but now she wished she didn't because it made it that much harder.

"Quinn," he whispered, as she tugged on the bottom of his shirt, her lips eager but her hands longing, "What are you doing?"

"I just, I want to be with you, in every way humanly possible," she whispers against the skin of his neck before placing a kiss there and another on the side of his neck and then on his jaw, on the corner of his mouth, on his lips. She kissed everywhere she could reach, his hand steady on her waist, squeezing lightly.

"Baby, you'll regret this later, this is just a spur of the moment kind of thing. I know you think me leaving will make this okay, but it won't," he runs a hand over her head, placing a kiss on her forehead.

"I won't regret this later, I've wanted this ever since I met you- now is the right time," she pulls him closer again, lips on his as she pulls his shirt over his head, only breaking the contact shortly. She knows he wants this, too. She knows he does because this couldn't possibly all have been a game to him.

He takes off her dress in a swift movement and she pretends it doesn't sting when she remembers he's probably done this before. Many times.

She unbuttons his pants and he shrugs out of them, pulling her tight to his body as the stumble towards the couch.

His hands roam her body like she had dreamed of so many times and his kisses taste even better now they're filled with this new kind of passion, this lust, this hunger. His eyes are dark and she almost can't believe this is happening. He takes off her bra and she slowly moves her trembling hands down his stomach when he speaks.

"I love you," he whispers onto her skin and she whimpers, tears forming in her eyes as she pulls away.

"You weren't supposed to say that."

"What?" he asks confused and she pushes him off her, quickly collecting her clothes as she tells him, "I can't do this. Goodbye, Noah. Please be safe."

He watches the door slam shut in disbelieve as he runs a hand over his head. She was complicating and frustrating and he was going to Vietnam in three hours. And he was totally and completely in love with her.

...

"**You're gonna have to leave me now, I know but I'll see you in the sky above, in the tall grass, in the ones I love. You're gonna make me lonesome when you go."**


	7. Chapter 7: he told her of his heart

_( thanks to __**littleredwritinggleek**__, __**gleeothfriends90210cccjsAMD **__and __**xxiluvnileynjoejxx **__for the lovely reviews! I also wanted to thank everyone who favorited and followed this story. who else is excited about the thanksgiving episode? They said there'd be some Puck/Quinn interaction, so I trust them. Actually I don't but my fangirl heart is just too excited. On to the next chapter, I hope I did it justice but I always have so many things swirling around in my head that I don't even know, haha! please tell me what you think, it's really helpful and helps me write faster. Other then that, please check out my amazing beta, BMontague because she is awesome and she's a Quick shipper/writer, and a good one that is, too! Thanks again (wow, I'm repetitious). On to the chapter! )_

…

"**I cried, never gonna hold the hand of another guy**

**Too young for him, they told her**

**Waitin' for the love of a travelin' soldier."**

**- Travelin' Soldier by the Dixie Chicks**

…

_Monday May 8th, 1971, 03:37 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C, the United States_

…

"_Carinõ_, what are you doing?" Santana sighs as she picks up a few tissues from the floor, putting them in the trashcan.

"Nothing."

Santana sighs again, but doesn't respond as she runs a hand over Quinn's hair before continuing to go to the kitchen. The young girl had been staring out of the window the entire day, biting on her nails and Santana had hoped that along with the rain, tears would come because at least then she would have prove something was wrong. But they never did.

"What happened last night, Miss Quinn?" Santana says as she sits down next to the blonde, a half an hour and a cooked steak later.

"Nothing," she repeats her words from before as she looks over at Santana, her eyes cold and hard.

"Don't lie to me," Santana reaches over to comb her blonde locks out of her face before looking back at her.

"He told me, he told me- he loved me and I ran, because, because- it makes everything so much harder," she lets out a sob, tears starting to stream down her cheeks, and Santana can't help but think _finally_ as she pulls her into her chest. "It h-hurts so mu-much more n-now," she tells her, her grip tightening on the material of Santana's dress.

"But you love him too, don't you?"

"Yes."

…

_Wednesday May 14th, 1971, 03:09 AM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

"You have to stop this, Miss Fabray," Santana told her as she wiped away Quinn's tears with one hand while tucking her in with the other.

"He's your cousin,_damnit_," she snapped, slapping her hands away, and Santana pulled her hands back, "Don't you hurt? Don't you want to scream- and cry, and yell at everyone? Because I do, I do so badly- and I wish I could change everything."

"I _do_, I hurt, Miss Fabray," Santana slowly stands up, straightening her ponytail and waiting for a moment before adding, "But I have to be strong, for him, for the rest of our men out a war. You are not alone, Miss Fabray, you're not, so stop acting like you are."

"I know I'm not the only one, Santana, I'm not stupid!" Quinn's voice is shaky as she sits up and throws everything off her nightstand with a simple swipe.

"Sometimes I feel like you think you are," Santana's voice trembles with anger, and Quinn has never actually seen her pretty face be so ugly, "You can waltz right into the hallway, go in to your father's office and change something. No one else can do that, Miss Fabray."

Quinn lay back down in her bed, turning her back to Santana as she stares at her wall.

"So, yes- you might be hurting, but you're also not the only woman at home with her loved one at war, who has a chance to make a change. And I swear to God, Miss Fabray, if I come here one more night to find you crying- I won't be here to wipe your tears."

"I already tried that remember."

"Try harder. Try every day. Or find something else to spend your time doing instead of crying and sitting idly by." Santana takes a small stack of paper out of her apron, throwing them onto Quinn's nightstand. The sound makes Quinn cringe but she doesn't turn around and sit up until she knows Santana is gone.

She carefully takes a piece of paper and sits down behind her desk.

'_Dear Noah,_

_I really miss y_'

She stops and scrunches up the paper, throws it away and gets up to get another one.

'_Dear Puck,_

_I'm sorry for rushing off like that. I miss you. Be safe._

_Love, Quinn'_

It's not a heartfelt confession, or a testimonial of love- but it's all she can manage at the moment.

She gives it to Santana the next morning, who promises she'll ship it today.

…

_Thursday June 3rd, 1971, 09:14 AM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

"Miss Quinn?"

"Yes?" She looks up from the small television, circling the necklace around her neck.

Santana holds up a letter and Quinn rushes to her, almost ripping it out of her hands as she rushes upstairs.

"You're welcome!" Santana calls after her, shaking her head to herself. If she hadn't been mistaken, she just saw the first smile on Quinn's face since he left.

Quinn sits down on her bed and tears open the letter, tears forming in her eyes as she runs her fingers over his messy handwriting.

'_Dear Quinn,_

_I understand, I get that reaction all the time when I take my shirt off._

_How are you, pretty girl? How's life without me? Without school? You must be bored out of your mind now you can't read a new book everyday or study some more French verbs._

_It's okay here. There's not much food and I have to share a bunk with this guy named Ryder, but he's cool and we always play cards. He has a girl at home, too, you know. He can't stop talking about her and showing me pictures of her. I think her name is Marley or something. She's pretty but she ain't as pretty as you. Are you, you know, still my girl?_

_Don't tell Santana, but I think I miss you more._

_Yours,_

_Noah_'

She smiles through her tears, she is so thankful he still has his humour and his wit. She takes a deep breath, holding the letter close, because right now, it's the closest thing she has to him.

'_Dear Puck,_

_Of course, I am. I was just afraid I wouldn't get to see you again._

_That's good. I watch a lot of television and my friend Brittany comes over now and then and we do each other's hair and nails. She's a bit of a dimwit, but she's funny, nice and she takes my mind off things. She can braid really well, you know, so I spend almost every day with the front of my hair in a braid on the top of my head. She calls it a princess crown._

_Tell me more, tell me about Ryder and his girl or tell me about the food and the quality of the bed or tell me about the color of the sky and the taste of the water there. Anything._

_Don't tell Santana, but I think I love you more._

_Love,_

_Quinn_'

…

_Thursday August 19th, 1971, 11:18 AM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

She went to church on Sunday and they read the names of a few local Vietnam dead, including one of Finn Christopher Hudson.

She begged Santana to take her, lied it was Brittany's cousin to her parents and so there she is, in a church on a Thursday morning in a black dress.

There's a girl with brown, curly hair crying hysterically in the front of the church, an older woman's hand arm around her shoulder as tears stream down her own cheeks. The older woman looks a little like Finn, the tall, funny guy she had seen on only a few occasions with the dimples and the cute grin. Puck's best friend. She wonders if he knows. He probably doesn't, which makes it even worse.

Should she tell him in her next letter? She gets one of him approximately every month but she doesn't know if she has the heart to tell him in a letter that his best friend got killed in the same war as him.

She hears the sobs of the girl, who she thinks is his girlfriend, and her chest tightens. She prays that she'll never be that girl, the one in the front row of the church crying because yet another soldier has been lost to this war, but she quickly stops because she's so, so selfish, mean even- cruel.

They play a song about blackbirds and Quinn thinks it's by the Beatles and they even have a moment of silence for all of the other soldiers (dead or alive and she hopes Noah still fits into the latter one) and the girl cries even harder when they fire of guns and hand her and his mother an American flag as they stand by his grave.

When Quinn imagines Finn lying in there, a sweet guy who she didn't even know that well but sure as hell didn't deserve this, she feels queasy.

Later she learns the girl's name is Rachel, and that she's pregnant with Finn's baby, and she just hopes this will never be her reality.

At night, she cries herself to sleep again, but this time Santana lets her.

…

_Friday October 8th, 1971, 08:45 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

...

She turned seventeen this day, left being sixteen behind even though she already felt like a forty year old ever since she met Puck. She grew up so fast and never really took time to stop and realize she was just sixteen years old, that this shouldn't be her life.

Her family sings to her and she smiles and thanks them as they give her presents, presents she later divides over all the helps in the house. Santana cuts the chocolate cake, gives her an extra big piece but she barely touches it.

She wonders about Ryder and his girlfriend and if she might know her. She wonders about the weather in Vietnam and if the sea smells the same there and if the songbirds chirp the same song in the morning as they do here. She wonders if his smile is still the same, if he still smells the same and if his laugh still sounds the same way.

How is she supposed to pretend nothing is wrong when everything is?

...

_Monday December 20th, 1971, 06:33 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

She visits Rachel and her little baby Christopher with her bodyguards. He's beautiful, looks a lot like Finn. It's cold and snowing outside so Rachel offered her some hot coco, handing over the baby to her.

He looks at her, sweet and gentle, his little fingers wrapping around her pinky as he babbles a little. She smiles, using her other fingers to caress his chubby cheeks.

Rachel comes back and puts the coco in front of her on the table as she smiles.

"It looks good on you… motherhood."

"Thank you, I guess," Quinn smiles a little as she hands back the tiny bundle of baby and blankets to Rachel. "How are holding up?"

Rachel shrugs as she looks down at her son, placing a short kiss on his forehead. "I used to dream of being married to Finn and be on Broadway and raising four or five children together, and now all I dream of is if I'll be able to pay the rent this month or buy enough diapers or if I'll ever feel completely happy again- if little Chris will ever be happy without a father."

Quinn nods as takes a sip of her coco, it burns her tongue but she can't look at Rachel without bursting into tears.

"Where did you know Finn from again? You're Noah's girlfriend, right? He talked a lot about you. To be honest I was kind of skeptical when he told me he was dating a girl like you, the President's daughter," Rachel huffs to herself, a small smile playing on her lips as she softly rocks Christopher in her arms.

Quinn nods her head again, "Yes, Finn- he was a good man. I didn't know him that well, but I could see Puck really loved him. They were like brothers."

"Noah's in Vietnam, too, isn't he?" She asks as she reaches forward to grab her own mug, taking a careful sip before placing it back on the table and leaning back on the couch, the little person (a mix of Rachel and Finn, even after he was gone) pressed against her chest.

"Yes, he's been there for seven months and twelve days."

Rachel nods to herself quietly, putting a stray of hair behind her ear. There aren't any Christmas decorations and Quinn faintly remembers that Santana told her Rachel was Jewish too.

"It'll fade you know, the hurt and the loneliness. It might not seem like it now, and we might miss them in different ways- and it won't go away, but it'll fade, and you won't feel it everyday and every hour. Only now and then."

Quinn tries to smile at her, but there's a lump in her throat and she feels tired. "I know, but it doesn't make it any less hard."

"Very true but just remember that Noah is still alive, and I've see the look on his face when he talks about you, and I know that he will do anything in his power to make it back to you in one piece. You kind of brought out the best in him, you made him want to be a better person."

She blushes slightly, she feels so out of place here, "Thank you."

"For what?'

"Just…" She licks her dry lips, wondering why exactly. For showing her you could be sad without crying about everything? For telling her it hadn't just all been in her head? For giving her hope again? "Thank you."

…

_Tuesday June 6th, 1972, 01:23 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

She reads it over and over and over, to see if there are any clues or hidden messages but it doesn't seem like it. No structural capitalized letters or missing punctuation. Nothing.

'_Dear Quinn,_

_I miss you so much, and even though I don't get to see your face every day, I think I love you even more now than I did before. I hope this war ends soon because I don't think I could bear another year without seeing your smile, or being with you, or hearing your horrible jokes, or kissing you._

_I hope to see you soon, pretty girl. The first time I get to hold you, I swear I'm not ever letting go._

_Yours,_

_Noah_'

She goes through her other letters carefully, protecting these letters with her life. Her eyes scan over the words, her brain not processing much

December.

'_Merry Christmas, baby. Hanukkah is coming up, but believe it or not, I miss your laugh more than the thought of cold weather and nine candles._'

February.

'_... and Ryder keep singing this annoying song and it makes me miss your songs and voice and..._'

October.

'_I hope you had the best birthday ever. I told Santana to buy you something nice but she'll probably end up buying you something that's her and not me at all, so sorry for that. Just know that I'll give you the best present ever next year. I really..._'

March.

'_The guys keep saying we almost won but I'll believe it when I see it. I want it to be over so badly because I miss you and Santana and Mike and Finn and Jesse, can you believe that? I even miss your sister Fran. Especially you. The guys do too, I know, so they're just being positive. I can't help but see the glass half empty and..._'

April.

'_I hope to see you soon, pretty girl. The first time I get to hold you, I swear I'm not ever letting go._

_Yours,_

_Noah_'

She reads all the letters, every single one of them, checks the mailbox herself every day, three times or four sometimes even five times, but there's nothing. No letters.

She wrote him. Letters in which she told him she loved him and missed him and please, hurry back. Letters in which she was angry, told him she hated him because he wasn't writing her back, told him she wished he would stay there forever. Letters in which she was sad, wished she had never met him, wished he had never made her feel this way. She wrote and wrote him and wrote him but her letters to his previous address always came back unopened.

"Puck, please don't do this," she whispers to herself after she collects all his letters from the floor and puts them back in a box labeled 'Noah'. "Please, don't."

Santana enters the room and puts a hand on Quinn's shoulder and this isn't the kind of pain she felt when she bruised her elbow in third grade or when Sam broke up with her or when her dog Spot died or the time people made fun of her for being the President's daughter, for being different. It feels like complete and utter solitude and death and pain, so much pain. It's like someone cut open her chest and poured salt on her heart. It's like her whole world and hopes and dreams come crashing down. She can't think straight, she can't breathe, she can't cry. She can't do anything but stare at her trembling hands as Santana squeezes her shoulder comfortably, softly whispering,

"I don't think there will come any more letters, _carinõ_."

...

"**Our love will never end, waitin' for the soldier to come back again."**


	8. Chapter 8: coming out on the losing end

_( thanks for the feedback, y'all! that was a shocker, huh? me not using my one liner 'thanks for the reviews' haha. i found my fic promoted/featured on Quick-fanfictions on tumblr which i thought was super awesome, so thanks for that, too. i changed the date of the elections from november to october for timeline purposes, same with the ending of the war- there actually was a suspension of offensive action in january 1973 not june, so there's that. i realize the lyrics seem somewhat well, depressive and cockblocking (oops) but timing's everything. especially when it comes to quinn and puck. ;) majore thank you again to my beta __**brookeeee**__! well, here's chapter 8 )_

…

"**Everything dies baby that's a fact,**

**but maybe everything that dies someday comes back."**

**- Atlantic City by Bruce Springsteen**

…

_Tuesday June 13th, 1972, 12:54 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

Santana told her Puck's camp had been under attack late May and they hadn't found his body yet, but he was most likely dead.

How could she say that? How could she say that without any hesitation, or hope, or sadness, or anger, or anything? Emotion? How could she not?

And that was that. They didn't speak about it again, because _God forbid_her parents heard.

She went through the five stages of grief quickly but it was like it was the slowest thing in her life. It was like her emotions were all over the place. She couldn't think straight.

…

_Thursday June 15th, 1972, 09:43 AM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

...

First there was denial.

"I'm fine," she told Santana for the third time that day and Santana just shook her head.

"That the third time you've lied to me, today."

"I'm fine, just leave me alone," she mumbled as she continued making her homework. She read and scribbled an answer down. Focused on words instead of thoughts.

She heard Santana sigh before she finally gave up and left Quinn's clothes for what they were- scrunched up, unfolded and wrinkled- on the bed. Quinn checked to see if Santana was really gone before opening up a drawer in her desk and pulling out a small picture.

It wasn't much. A quick shot of his face in sepia, a little hazy, a little torn at the edges. It wasn't anything that could possible capture the essence of Noah Puckerman. But it was him in all his forms and flaws and heartbreak.

She carefully ran her finger over his smile. She closed her eyes and pictured he was right here next to her. He couldn't be dead. He couldn't be one of those bodies that was buried somewhere in the desert. He couldn't be one of the men that would remain nameless for the rest of eternity. He couldn't be. He wasn't.

She wouldn't believe it, not until she had actual proof. She was smart, she was educated- she was taught to look at facts, not at the obvious or the common believed.

She opened her eyes and put the picture away.

No. She was not going to grieve him. He wasn't dead. She was going to do her homework, ace her next test and he was going to come back. Puck was going to come back and he was going to hold her and kiss her and she would never _ever_ have to let him go again.

…

_Monday June 26th, 1972, 06:39 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

...

"Miss Fabray, can you hand me that hairpin, please?" Santana asks as she takes the last bobby pin from between her lips and pins Quinn's hair on top of her head. She held out her hand as she held up a small piece of blond hair with her other hand and twists it around her finger, putting it against the bun on Quinn's head.

Quinn stares at herself in the mirror, blindly taking the pin and handing it to Santana. Santana finishes her hair and sprays some hairspray on it. She pats her shoulder. "You're all done."

"_Mierda_," Santana mutters quietly to herself as she spots a small tear in Quinn's dress. "We need to fix that, come here." She takes Quinn's hand and tugs her onto her feet and positions her in front of the bed.

Santana leaves the room momentarily before coming back with a sewing kit. She starts working on Quinn's dress, swiftly and adroitly. "You mustn't move."

Santana accidentally pricks into Quinn's fragile skin and Quinn swats her hands away holding a hand to her hurt side. There isn't much blood, barely enough to stain her dress, just a little- but it was enough to take her over the edge.

"You're such a wastrel, Santana! God, can't you do anything right?" she yells, her eyes turning dark. Santana doesn't respond, just takes a deep breath.

"I hate you," Quinn spits out as she repeats herself again, "I hate you. I hate you. I _hate_ you!"

"Miss Fabray…" Santana tries as she reaches out and grabs her shoulder.

"No! Don't touch me," she warns her, smacking her hand away. "I hate this. I hate feeling like this. I hate looking like this." She brings a hand up to her face and runs it over her skin. Her chest heaves up and down as she tears off her pearl necklace, a family heirloom. She storms over to her vanity and looks at herself again.

"_Look_ at me. I look like a joke!" She pulls out the bobby pins holding her hair up and tries to wipe her makeup off with her hands. "I look like..." She starts, looking up at the ceiling to keep herself from crying as her voice starts breaking. She can't breathe. "I-I…I…"

"Miss…" Santana pleads and Quinn notices the redness in her eyes, the tiredness on her face, the hopelessness in her every move.

"I don't want to live like this, Santana," she finally lets it out. The tears, the heartache, the feeling her life was a dead-end street that never stopped. "Not anymore."

Santana pulls her in her arms and down on the bed and cradles her slowly. "It'll be all right, _cariño_. It'll be all right."

It's the first time she hears Santana cry. It's the first time like she feels like she really knows her. It's the first time she realizes this isn't going to go away. This is real. Puck's gone and so is her stillness. Her calm.

Soon the anger had passed and she felt empty again. Just like that. Fleeting but momentous, like her love for Noah.

…

_Sunday January 9th, 1966, 10:34 PM_

_Puckerman household, Lima, OH, the United States_

...

"What are you doing?" He asks her and Santana freezes, taking a deep breath as she turns around. Her eyes are apologetic but her red rimmed eyes are telling him otherwise. He can't believe she would do this to her own family, again.

"I need the money, Puck."

"For what?"

"Nothing."

"For what, Santana?" His face is slowly turning red and she knows she's screwed either way. Her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks as she squeezes her eyes shut. She can't look at him, not when he looks like this.

"I need some new clothes, that's all," she tells him as she takes the green bills of the counter blindly, her eyes not leaving his and shoves them in her apron.

"Santana," he says sternly, his fist balled and she doesn't recall him ever looking so much like his abusive father. He wasn't anything like him, not even remotely. She knew that.

"He… He just needs some money, okay?" She passes him but he grabs her arm. His eyes bore into hers and she feels a chill run over her back.

"He's using again, isn't he?" He doesn't need an answer, her face is telling him more than a thousand words.

"N-No." They both shake. She shakes her head violently, tears pouring down her cheeks and he shakes with anger, his grip on her arm tightening.

"Don't lie to me, Santana!"

…

_Sunday July 9th, 1972, 01:01 PM_

_National City Christian Church, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

She takes Rachel to church. Rachel's Jewish but Quinn knows she's just thankful to get out of her house for once.

They sit in the second row, no company but an elder lady a couple of rows behind them and a few volunteers renovating in the back of the church. They've been sitting in silence for a few minutes now, enjoying the peace and quiet or maybe slowly drowning in it. Baby Christopher is with Finn's mother and Quinn's kind of disappointed. Even in a miserable world like this, the small being never failed to make her smile.

"I never really got churches," Rachel tells her as she clutches her hands together. "There's so much artwork that it takes away the beauty of simplicity. God is everything and everywhere but there's one thing he'll never be, and that's difficult."

Quinn shrugs mindlessly as she plays with the rosary in her lap. "Art isn't difficult. Once you learn to appreciate it." She's afraid to look at Rachel. They have met up a few times now but never discussed anything else the latest thing that happened on '_All in the Family_' or the newest fashion trends. The lightweights of life, she knew that, but it was nice, being with someone who understood her without having to constantly be reminded of her loss. Being here, in a place she practically grew up in, she knows the hardships of their lives will eventually float up to the surface.

Rachel nods silently, offering her a small smile but Quinn isn't looking at her. Not yet.

"Do you miss him a lot?" Rachel asks her as she leans back and studies the features of the church around her.

Quinn lets out a long and loud sigh, looking upwards. "I'd do anything to get him back." It was the bargaining speaking for her, although she wouldn't categorize this as a stage in her grieving. She would do anything to get him back. "Even if it was just for a day."

"Be careful who you sell your soul to, Quinn," Rachel tells her with a small smile as she links her arm with hers, connecting their hands. "You're a strong, young, beautiful girl. You'll get through this."

"I would give up being all of that if I could just touch him one more time," she retorts. Just enough to have his smell linger on her skin. It wouldn't be sufficient in any way, not ever, but at least she would get to say goodbye.

"You will get through this, Quinn," Rachel tells her as she pats Quinn's arms softly with her free hand.

"What about you?" Quinn can feel her defenses crumble and she leans her head on Rachel's shoulder. Rachel responds by leaning hers on top of Quinn's. They both stare at the candles in the front of the church. Flickering lightly, summarizing the ups and downs of life.

"I have you, don't I?" Rachel laughs lightly and Quinn squeezes her arm momentarily because it's all she can think off to show Rachel her support.

"You will," Rachel repeats in a whisper and Quinn desperately hopes that's true because she doesn't need a reason to be disappointed in God.

…

_Monday August 21th, 1972, 08:57 AM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

She goes to the lake she fell in love with and with Noah. She sits there for hours, and hours, scaring her bodyguards up until the point they just stared at her, wondering where that sweet little Quinn had gone, sixteen just yesterday.

She doesn't even notice them. She's too busy following the current of the water, looking at the reflection of the trees and picturing his hands on her waist, steady and warm, and the way he had smiled at her, in a way that had made her feel honestly beautiful for the first time, on the inside, too.

She's cold, she knows she'll get pneumonia if she doesn't go home- but she doesn't know if she cares, or if she has a home for that matter. Because what was her home, now? Now that he was gone? That big white house she would have to trade once her father wasn't the President anymore? Her family that had tried so hard to push the one she loved away just because he wasn't perfect, a father who hadn't spoken to her in weeks, a mother who pretended nothing was wrong? Santana, who had refused to look at her like she used to? Nothing. No one. She didn't have a home, not anymore, and as far as she was concerned she could stay here forever.

…

_Thursday September 7th, 1972, 03:09 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

...

She blows off Rachel for what she thinks it the sixth time in a row, but she isn't really counting.

She's cold so she lights the fireplace and sits in front of it. She doesn't feel the warmth radiate onto her so she holds out her hand above the fire. Her skin turns hotter and hotter and her mind is warning her to pull it away but she can't seem to find the strength.

"Miss Quinn, what are you doing?" Santana calls out frantically as she pulls Quinn's hand away and helps her up, guiding her to her room. "You could have really hurt yourself."

Quinn lets out an almost maniacal laugh and Santana looks worried as she tucks her into bed, brushing her hand over her forehead one more time before leaving Quinn to herself.

As if anything could ever hurt her as bad ever again.

…

_Friday September 29th, 1972, 05:21 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

...

"You have to eat, Quinnie," her mother tells her as she takes a bite of the green vegetables on her fork. Worry. Or pretence. Or both.

Her father doesn't say anything, just continues cutting his steak in small pieces. Ignorance.

She's been getting really good at studying people. Their manners and habits and thoughts. It's easy when you don't speak- people start to think you don't listen either.

"Yes, if you get any thinner men might suspect you're dying," Frannie tells her bitterly as she tears off a piece of bread and dips it in her soup. Jealousy.

She can feel Santana shift uncomfortably behind her, swallows hard. Knowledge.

She stuffs her mouth with the small potatoes on her plate, as she tries not to let it slip. _She hates them all._

…

_Monday October 2nd, 1972, 10:58 AM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

...

Before she knows it, it's October and her father gets reelected and all she worries about again is how she looks on the picture in the paper and which hairstyle will make her cheekbones come out the best and what lipstick makes her look the most innocent.

She sees Rachel now and then, but not really like she used to because she's a link to her past and she won't let her past get to her again. All she can worry about is the future.

She learns to accept that this is something that has scarred her forever, but she can't let it haunt her. She won't let it haunt her. Her life was destined to be this way, with no real depth, no real feelings.

She could live like this. It was okay.

…

_Tuesday December 12th, 1972, 07:19 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

...

His name is Jeffrey Sterling.

He's nice. He's more than nice.

He pulls out her chair, holds open the door for her, offers her his jacket when it gets cold. He's perfect. Too perfect. Their story was not the kind of story books would get written over or movies would be made over.

She feels selfish for wanting that. She feels like she had used Puck, for a thrill, for something different, for something special. But it had been special. It had been, which meant it was in the past and she had to move on.

He courts her for a month until she finally gives in and accepts to be his girlfriend. Her mother is happy- ecstatic. Her father smiles at her, the first time in months. Her sister has another reason to be jealous. Santana offers her her congratulations, but she can see the betrayal in her eyes.

She might have been imagining it on Santana, but when she puts on the charm bracelet Jeffrey gave her because _the most beautiful girl in the world deserved the best_, she can feel it, too. It's in her veins, in her system and she can't seem to get it out. The feeling of betrayal. It doesn't look good on her.

He means it, too. Jeff. When he tells her she's the most beautiful girl in the world. It just doesn't feel the same.

…

...

_Saturday February 3rd, 1973, 08:04 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

She is starting to forget how he looks, how his skin felt on hers and at night the sound of his heartbeat doesn't thud dully around in her head anymore. She doesn't want these things to bother her, she wants to let him go, she wants to move on but it's like something is holding her back.

And Jeffrey couldn't possibly be sweeter to her and understanding and he really is the perfect fit for a girl like her. A beautiful girl without substance.

So she tells him _yes_, when he asks her if she wants to marry him as soon as she turns eighteen.

He tells her about his hopes and dreams and plan for the future. Their future.

He buys her a ring, too. It's big and sparkly and unexpected, nothing like her. She likes it. She wears it with pride, because at least someone wanted to marry her.

…

_Monday June 4th, 1973, 08:24 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

The war is over. It's finally over.

Her father throws a party for his respective friends. Jeffrey's there and he kisses her as soon as he enters the room. She smiles at him and takes another sip of her third glass of champagne. No one had minded that she wasn't twenty-one yet, because the war had ended, it was time to celebrate.

What was there to celebrate? Fifty-eight-thousand-two-hundred-and-twenty deaths. Three-hundred-and-three-six-hundred-forty-four wounded. And that number was only their own men. Dead, missing, wounded, broken men…and here they were celebrating.

People were horrible and disgusting and being around them only made her miss Puck more.

She throws up later that night, makes up excuses to Santana about it being the alcohol but the Latina knows better.

She does, too.

...

_Wednesday July 4th, 1973, 07:10 AM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

She's at breakfast, alone for the first time in years. Her parents are out at their holiday mansion somewhere near Madison, Wisconsin for Independence Day and her sister is God knows where, probably avoiding her so she wouldn't have to pretend that ring didn't bother her.

It's a normal day, and she's just eating breakfast. The sun shines and it's warm and she doesn't feel depressed or okay but maybe somewhere in between, which is definitely progress.

It's just breakfast, comprised of the usual toast, bacon and milk. She sips on her orange juice and Santana enters the room, sniffing a little as wipes the skin underneath her eyes with her index finger.

"Something wrong, Santana?" Quinn asks her as she takes a small bite of her bagel, turning her head to study her.

But it had to be over breakfast when Santana mentions, "They found him, Miss Fabray."

…

"**Now our luck may have died and our love may be cold but with you forever I'll stay."**


	9. Chapter 9: you've got your demons

_( A/N This story is wrapping up :( Thanks for sticking with me! I just literally sat here for an hour crying over your reviews, so thank you for that, too. And please keep in mind: Expect the unexpected. And another big, huge thank you to the fastest beta in da universe:__** Brooke**__! )_

…

"_**Words, how little they mean, when you're a little too late**_

_**I stood right by the tracks, your face in a locket**_

_**Good girls, hopeful they'll be and long they will wait,**_**"**

**- Sad beautiful tragic by Taylor Swift**

…

_Saturday September 29th, 1973, 04:02 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

She tries on four different dresses but eventually goes with a nice pink floral sundress she wore to her cousin's wedding a few months ago. Puck was coming over to see Santana and although she had carelessly mentioned it barely _once_ during a cake tasting— the thought of a wedding cake made her sick now— almost as if she had hoped Quinn wouldn't, or not care or plainly ignore it. She did hear though, and she did care and she couldn't ignore it. She couldn't.

She had tried convincing herself she was over him— as in long over, gone, done with, moved on, getting married to another man— but she couldn't shake him off. He had been her first love, really, and it was common knowledge no one really ever forgot their first love. It wasn't like she was longing for their romance to restart— she wasn't, she didn't love him like that anymore, she had Jeffrey now— but she missed him. Sweet, flawed, rough, gentle Puck. Her best friend.

Just knowing he was alive... She could barely handle it. She had spent months trying to forget him— ban him out of her thoughts, out of her mind, out of every fiber of her being— while he was still there, breathing, touchable. Alive.

She couldn't just ignore that and pretend like he wasn't coming to her house. She had to see him, touch him, at least to make sure this all wasn't just a dream— reality screwing up her head once again.

So there she was, sitting at the dinner table with a cup of tea in a sundress that proved to be great at keeping her hands busy with fumbling. She waited until she heard Santana open the door, their voices low but she recognized both of them. Santana, her friend, her help, her companion in all of this. And Puck.

"... look good, San."

"You don't."

Quinn hears the smile in her voice as she slowly exits the room, the front door just around the corner now. Her heart is pounding in her chest and her hands get sweaty. She remembers Santana's story. His camp got attacked and he was left for dead somewhere in the woods by the Vietnamese, he was found a few days later and after a week of recovery he was reassigned to a new camp.

"Are you going to keep me out here all day or what?"

She hears the door slam shut and a few footsteps. She walks down the hallway, around the corner, stopping in her tracks as she sees him. He's wearing his uniform and there's little hair on his head, somehow he even looks more buff as before. He doesn't notice her right away as he laughs at something Santana says and it feels so unfamiliar, and it shouldn't feel like that.

He looks up, though, and freezes when he does notice her. Santana turns around and looks at Quinn, too. It's not the same because whereas Santana looks like she'd seen it all coming maybe even a little annoyed with the predictability of it all— Puck couldn't look more surprised (and out of place in the big white house).

Santana excuses herself, squeezes Puck shoulder and brushes against hers as she passes her.

"Your hair is shorter."

Like an idiot she reaches up to touch her hair, to make sure that it is in fact shorter. She cut it a while ago. It barely reaches her shoulders but it takes less time in the morning and it makes her look older.

"I loved your long hair," he told her as he took a step closer. He reaches out to touch her face but she takes a step back.

"I know," she answered him— and maybe she sounds a little bit bitter (and maybe she doesn't know why).

"Well— it looks pretty anyway."

She nods her head in response, biting down on her lip. "Let's go to the living room." She doesn't wait for him to follow her, instead takes the charge and starts walking. She doesn't know why she feels this sudden hatred, this sudden pain when she looks at him. It's like every time he smiles she's reminded of the pain _he_caused her. One simple letter or telegram would have been enough. To her, or Santana, or anyone. Just a few simple words like '_I'm not dead_' or '_This is Puck_' or '_I can't write for a while_'.

She sits down on the couch across from him, smoothes out her dress before looking at him.

"How've you been?" She wants to ask him, but she doesn't. She can, because he's here and he's alive, but maybe that's the problem. He's alive, and he didn't bother to let her know. He didn't bother to take her out of her misery and sorrow and sadness— and instead just left her here to bleed.

He asks her the question instead and she shrugs. She wants to tell him the truth; that maybe a small part of her hates him but her mouth doesn't move, instead just feels dry.

"Fine," she mumbles before meeting his eyes again, "What about you?"

"Fine," he responds and she knows he feels it, too. The distance and the unfamiliarity. It's like they're strangers now. Two completely different people.

She should ask him. She should ask him why he didn't write, she should ask him if he hates her a little bit too, she should ask him if he wants to run away with her (still).

He wants to ask her things too. Or maybe tell her, but she knows he won't unless she asks for it. He was never a talker and that surely hasn't changed, might just have gotten worse.

"I like your dress," he smiles and she wants so badly to kiss him again, to feel that smile on her lips as he runs his fingers over her sides. She wants so badly to feel his skin on hers, so badly to pretend the last two years didn't happen.

She manages to smile back at him though and she sees something flash in front of his eyes. He reaches over to grab her hand. His thumb runs over her fingers slowly and they both stare at their fingers as he intertwines them. His skin is hot, like she remembers. She wonders if he remembers stupid stuff like that. Like she remembers the curve of his eyebrows when he's annoyed, or the way he purses his lips when he's jealous or his slightly different smirk when he wants _her_, or how the muscle in his arms feel under her fingertips.

Santana clears her throat and Quinn quickly pulls her hand away, "President Fabray has invited you over to dinner. To thank you for your service."

Puck nods and it's like something clicks in her head. The last two years did happen.

…

_Saturday September 29th, 1973, 06:07 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

…

"Ms. Lopez happened to mention you were here to visit her so I thought why not thank you for your services. After all, you were a dear friend of my beloved daughter back before…"

Quinn swallowed her soup without blowing on it, the liquid burning her mouth. It kept her quiet.

She sits next to Jeffrey at the table, a seat over and across from Puck. Her father tells some stupid joke about the war and about them being superior— something about those _damn dinks_and their eyesight— and she swears she could see Puck tighten his jaw but all he does is thank her father politely for his gratitude and hospitality.

"This is really good," Quinn breaks the silence after a few minutes as she puts another piece of meat in her mouth. Her mother nods and her father begins to talk about the quality of the meat these days or something.

Jeffrey smiles at her and leans over to grab her hand. She blatantly stares at it before looking over at Puck, whose eyes only turn hard before turning away.

She catches him after dinner quietly talking with Santana out on the porch.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" Her voice is low and she doesn't look at either of them as she walks down to the garden and follows the small, stone path, hoping he'd follow her. He does, and they walk for a minute or two before he talks.

"I'm happy you found someone, Q."

She frowns and doesn't respond as she hugs herself with her arms. The sun is starting to disappear and the pink skies are slowly turning dark.

"There's less security," he points out as he stops walking and looks around, his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans. She stops too and faces him as she responds coldly, "We have security camera's now."

"Fancy," he responds with a smirk but she doesn't budge.

A cold wind passes her and she would have shivered if she wasn't so furious. "Why didn't you write?"

"Quinn..." He starts but she stops him.

"No. Tell me. Please. Enlighten me on why you couldn't bother to let _one_ single person know you weren't rotting away somewhere in _goddamn_ Vietnam!"

"We were so young back then Quinn. We didn't even know what love was. So much can happen in only two years, can't it? Our lives are so different now. You're engaged and I'm—" he smiles but in his eyes she sees the truth. He's hurt, but she can't listen to him any longer.

"Don't you dare," she puts up her finger, her entire body shaking. "Don't you dare!"

She pushes him, "I thought you were dead. Dead. You didn't write me, not once. Not me, not Santana, not anyone. We all thought you were dead! I cried for months, I stared at walls, I—I refused to eat—" She shakes her head to herself, "And now you come here, you come back, and you dare to tell me I didn't love you? That what we had wasn't real?"

His fingers dig into her wrist, his eyes pleading, and she hates him, hates him so much. "You don't get to come back and ruin me again," she whispers and his grip loosens.

"I was trying to protect you guys. I could've died there; the odds weren't in my favor. I couldn't keep holding all of you back, living in fear and—" She slaps him and he lets go of her, instead holding in his cheek. Her hand stings and so do her eyes.

"_Bullshit_. You're just a scared little boy who is afraid by the thought that someone could actually care about him enough, actually love him enough to do it for the rest of their life. You got scared and I got hurt because of it. We hurt because of you," she points her finger at him again and she sees it in his eyes, that he's sorry and that he regrets it— but if anything, it makes her even more angry.

"I spent months wondering, how do you lose something you never really had? Because we never really got to be together, not really, not completely. But I didn't lose you, did I? Because you were still there, I just didn't know. But you lost _me_," she pushes him again. He hadn't been lost, maybe that's what hurt so much. "I hope you know that."

"I didn't, I refuse to believe that," he tells her so certain, so almost arrogantly it makes her want to slap him again.

But he's right. She's shaking, she's on the verge of crying, she's upset to say the least— she's so many things and sadly one of them is still in love with him. So in love it hurts to feel this pained at the thought of him.

She shakes her head, because she won't give in. She closed herself off to him months ago, she couldn't let him in and let him tear apart her heart in tiny, unfixable pieces again. "Let me rephrase that. I _did_ lose you in that war, Noah. You're not the same anymore, but neither am I. I am no longer the naive, scared little girl who wants to get swept off her feet by you so maybe you're right. Maybe we were young, maybe it wasn't love. But what I felt was real, and goddammit it still is. But I changed and now I can't change back for the life of me."

He kisses her and when she tastes the salt on his lips she realizes she's been crying. She pushes him off though, because it feels too good and if she continues any longer he might break her all over again. You can find someone that's lost, but you can't fix someone that's been broken more than once.

Before she rushes off back inside, she tells him, "I can't. I'm engaged, now and maybe if you had just sent a _damn_ letter and hadn't been such a complete inconsiderate asshole— maybe I wouldn't be."

…

_Friday January 30th, 1974, 10:29 AM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States_

...

"Daddy, bodyguards will only draw more attention to us. Santana will protect me. As a matter of fact, I'm almost eighteen, I think I can protect myself."

"You'll always be my little girl, Quinn."

She tries smiling, "It'll be good practice for next year, daddy. When I'll be living with Jeffrey."

"Fine, but promise me you'll be careful and you'll pick out the dress you want the most, okay? No matter what price," he smiles at her and she would've thought that was sweet, if the thought of a wedding dress (or a wedding even) didn't make her feel so stuck.

She nods her head and kisses her father's cheek before leaving his office and buttoning up her coat with steady hands.

"Where you're going?" Santana asks her and Quinn doesn't bother looking up. "Out."

"By yourself?" She can basically hear Santana's eyebrows cock upwards.

"I'm just going on a walk, Santana. I'll be back before you know it."

"Miss Fabray—" Santana tries but she's already out the door.

…

_Friday January 30th, 1974, 03:27 PM_

_Trevor's bar, Washington, D.C., the United States_

...

She ends up at his door. She hadn't planned on it, not really. Not after months of cutting him out of her life. She had just wanted to walk past the bar to see if he was there, to see how he was doing. But she ends up in front of the door of his apartment.

She wasn't going to knock. She wasn't going to let herself get into this mess again. She was about to turn around. She _was_.

He opens the door though, one arm through the sleeve of his jacket, the other one struggling to find the hole of the other sleeve. He stops when he sees her (like the time he stopped kissing her and told her _she could touch him_ or the time she stopped when they first kissed and told him _they barely even knew each other_), "Quinn?"

"Don't ask why," she chews on the inside of her lip as she passes him and walks inside his apartment. She doesn't quite know why she's here either.

He takes off his jacket and follows her, wherever he was going probably wasn't that important.

She's about to sit down on the couch when she changes her mind and turns around to face him, "I'm engaged."

"I know," he responds, unsure where this was leading.

"He's sweet. Jeffrey. He's really nice to me, he would never hurt me."

"That's good," he nods his head, slightly frowning. What was she doing?

"At least not like you hurt me," she adds and it's like he isn't even in the room, like she's talking to herself. He doesn't say anything, and she continues, "You hurt me, Puck."

"I know," he repeats, and she notices he seems tired and slightly aggravated. "I'm sorry. I don't know what you want me to say, Quinn. I'm so sorry but I know I can't take it back."

"I love you," she breathes, "I love you and I guess I was so afraid to say it out loud all this time because then it means it's real. It means it's real and when it's real, when it's really love, when I _really_ love you and you love me, too— it hurts so much more when it all just proves to be doomed. When it ends."

He doesn't say anything but she steps closer to him, "I don't want it to end, but somehow I always end up alone and hurt and I honestly can't handle any more pain."

"But you deserve to know at least that," she pauses, reaches up to touch his cheek, "I do. I do, I love you."

"I love you," he echoes, putting his hand on her cheek before leaning down to kiss her. She kisses him back, both of her hands on his shoulder, gripping tightly.

They stumble towards his room and he lays her down on his bed, gently before taking off his shirt. She bites her lip, and he's so handsome and he's so sweet to her and she almost can't believe he's the same guy who was hurting her only a few days ago. He crawls back on top of her, his calloused finger running over her sides. It's not enough; she wants to feel his fingers on her bare skin.

He stops kissing her though, distances his body from hers and she purses her lip and frowns because doesn't he want her? She wants him so desperately.

"Quinn..." His eyes are so serious, she smiles.

She leans up, supporting her weight with her elbow as she reaches up with her other hand, putting it behind his neck, placing a kiss on his lips before whispering, "Please?"

He hesitates but finally nods as he swiftly pulls her towards him, his hands reaching behind her back to unzip her white dress. She slowly takes off the dress and he mumbles something along the lines of '_fuck, baby, hurry up_' against her skin as he kisses neck.

She finally manages to take off the entire dress and he pulls away to look at her. She reminds herself of the time they went swimming or the time in his apartment when they almost had done it, that this was no different from that— but it was. Everything was different.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers before leaning down to kiss her. She forgets to kiss him back; there are so many other things on her mind.

With shaky hand she reaches for his belt, unclasps it with great difficulty before opening the button of his jeans and pushing them down. He reaches down to grab her hands with one of his, steadying himself with the other. He lets go of one of her hands, kissing the other before moving his way up her arm, landing at her neck again.

His hand move towards her back again, slowly unclasping her bra (and she doesn't think about all the other times he's done that before or the times he had a girl over or the times he had another girl besides her moan his name), his hands slowly moving to her sides. She takes her bra off, and feels her cheek color. She reaches up and presses her chest against his, feeling exposed.

"The first time always hurts," he whispers against her hair like he's some expert and she nods against his shoulder as his thumbs hook under the hem of her panties, pushing the pink nylon down her thighs. He kisses her mouth and she feels her hands trembling as she reaches for his boxers.

"Are you sure, baby?" He looks into her eyes and she licks her dry lips before kissing him.

She pulls away, "I am so sure."

His hand moves downward and after a moment he slips into her and she bites onto her lip so hard she draws blood as he mumbles to her again, "I love you."

…

_Saturday March 30st, 1974, 2:23 PM_

_Trevor's Bar, Washtington, D.C., the United States_

...

She knocks on his door, but there's no answer. She tries again, and this time someone does open. But it's not Puck. A perky, petite blond with wild hair and a barely there outfit does.

"Get out," Quinn bites.

"Excuse me?"

"_Get out_. Do I need to spell it out for you or are you still learning the alphabet? Get. Out."

The blond seems confused but starts collecting her clothes anyway as Puck enters the room, shirtless as he rubs his eyes. "What the fuck, Quinn?"

"Seriously?" She asks him nodding over at the blond before blindly reaching for a vase and throwing it at his head. She misses but she won't miss next time.

"Quinn! You're being insane!"

The blond passes her, throwing a quick '_call me_' over her shoulder. She's about to turn around and yank on the locks of the _bimbo_ but Puck stops her.

"You basically ignore me for two months, and now you're mad because? Why? Why exactly are you mad?"

"Does that turn you?" Quinn huffs, a small smirk playing on her lips but her eyes are giving her away (_she hates him, she hates him, she hates him_). She takes a step closer to him at each sentence, "Is it just all about the game?" She runs her fingers over his chest, "All about the thrill of getting the good, naive, innocent girl and taking her virginity—making her feel loved, making her want you, like you've done so many times before?" She reaches up to rest her hand on the back of his neck as she whispers into his ear, "Do you pretend she's me? Do you _moan_ out my name when you do her? Do you?"

He grabs her hand, his eyes hard, "You're such a bitch, Quinn."

"So you do? Pretend she's me? You _do_ love me? Or you don't and this was all a game? I don't know which one appeals to me more right now," she yanks her hand lose from his grip.

"What are you doing here, Quinn? If you hate me that much, why are you here? You were doing a great job at pretending I didn't exist, so why not just continue?" His voice is cold and harsh but she had expected it. She had expected all of this to break, crash, burn— end.

"I came here to tell you I'm late," her voice softens slightly, "I'm late and I don't know what to do." She swallows hard, her watery eyes afraid to meet his.

"Shit," he mutters, "Shit, is it— is it mine?"

She slaps him again— and if she's not careful she might make a habit out of it.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry" he mumbles against her forehead after placing a kiss on it, pulling her into his arms. "Did you – have you seen a doctor?"

She shakes her head against his chest, "I can't be seen going to the hospital. People will talk. My father owns people. They can't know." Slowly tears trail down her cheeks, leaving stains of mascara.

"We'll go. We'll go see my mom, okay? No one will know you there, not as well as they do here and we can see a doctor, okay?" Her face is in his hands, but so is her hope, her trust, her heart and he could crush all of it so easily.

She nods her head and he kisses her forehead again before mumbling, "I'll take care of you, Q."

…

_Saturday March 30st, 1974, 9:58 PM_

_Route 75, OH, the United States_

...

The trip in the car is silent, so silent it's almost painful. She's tired for no reason, though, so she sleeps almost the entire ride there. Lima, Ohio. He grew up there, he became who he was there, he had lived and loved there— it was so weird to think she'd be there in less than an hour.

"Do you think your mom will like me? I didn't have time to change, I had to get out of there as fast as I could before anyone could catch me," she says quietly as she smoothes out the fabric of her old dress. Definitely not her prettiest or most expensive one. Not very impressing.

"It's just a dress, Q," he smiles a little though, because it's one of the first things she's said to him since they entered the car. They had stopped somewhere along the road and she had called home, telling them not to worry— she was okay and she'd be back in a few days.

"First impressions are important. You only get one and – and I want your mom to like me," she dares to look up at him and his smiles widens just the tiniest bit, just enough for her to notice and he reaches over to squeeze her hand.

"You really are perfect, you know that? Your whole life might be about to be turned upside down and you're worrying about meeting my mom," his eyes sparkle like they used to, like they did when he told her he loved her the first time and the second time, when they made love.

She shrugs, but intertwines their fingers silently.

"What happened between you and Santana?" She finally spits it out.

"What do you mean?" He frowns slightly as he momentarily takes his eyes off the road to look at her.

"There's always this tension between you two and you told me once, you hated it when people lied and I, just…"

"It's not important," he retorts, the knuckles on his hand on the steering wheel turning white.

"It _is_ to me."

"Later, okay?" he places a kiss on the back of her hand and she nods because she knows he won't tell her anyway, not now at least. It's frustrating, but soon she falls into a slumber again— a blissful, peaceful distraction from everything.

…

"_**We had a beautiful magic love there**_

_**What a sad beautiful tragic love affair."**_

…

_( Please review! It'd mean a lot :) )_


	10. Chapter 10: the flames slow and strange

…

**"I heard your voice through the noise**

**I was cold and it was warm inside."**

**- Kept by Matt Nathanson**

...

_Sunday March 31st, 1974, 01:47 AM_

_Puckerman household, Lima, OH, The United States_

...

"She's pretty," his mom tells him when the suns already long submerged and he's only wearing sweats and a t-shirt. Quinn went to bed immediately when they arrived, her and his mom only exchanging 'hi, it's nice to meet you's.'

She's staring out the kitchen window, a cup of coffee clenched in between her thin hands. His mom looks even more tired than he remembers. The wrinkles around her brown eyes, her dark locks turning grey and her worn out smile giving away that she went through a lot. Then again, the last time he saw her has been almost a decade ago.

"She is," he agreed as he leaned back against the kitchen counter and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He stared at the picture of his little sister above the kitchen table— trying to picture her now. Little, tiny Sarah.

"And thin, she should eat more."

"I'll tell her."

"Noah, why are you here? Don't tell me it's because you just wanted to see me. You haven't bothered to call me for years and now you take back a Fabray?"

His head snaps up and his mother puts her cup down harshly, half of the content spilling over the edge.

"Don't look at me like I'm stupid, Noah. I read the paper. I vote," his mother hisses as shakes her head. "Don't tell me you're in love with this girl."

This version of his mother doesn't resemble the quiet, depressed, mess of a woman he left. His mother who refused to speak to him, ignored him for months, caused him to leave.

He remained quiet.

His mother slapped him hard, leaving a red mark on his cheek. She spit, "You're a stupid boy, you've always been a stupid boy."

He pushed himself off the counter, facing his mom. His cheek stung but he tried to ignore it. He was a grown man now, he'd been beaten up countless times by men ten times as strong as her, he'd gone to war, he'd seen men die but somehow a slap from his own flesh and blood hurt that much more. "Mom, don't do this."

"Please," he begged but he saw her dull eyes. She wasn't herself. Not anymore. She slapped him again, pushing against his chest and hit him, and hit him and hit him. He knew this wasn't about Quinn anymore. It never was.

"Stop," he yelled, grabbing her arms. His mother yanked her arms back, "You're a selfish, worthless, stupid boy, and I wish I had never had you."

He sighed. Her words didn't pain him anymore, not when they had gotten this common— this familiar.

"I don't want her in this house, Noah," his mother turned back to look out the window. She was trembling. "I want you to leave tomorrow and don't bother me or your baby sister again."

He locked his jaw before going upstairs. He heard his mother's soft weeps increase with each step.

"Your sweet, sweet baby sister. My Sarah, my angel."

...

_Sunday March 31st, 1974, 02:13 AM_

_Puckerman household, Lima, OH, The United States_

...

He looked at himself in the mirror, muttering to himself. "Shit."

There was a nasty cut on his cheek from the impact of his mom's wedding ring but overall she hadn't done much damage.

He quickly cleaned it off, not bothering to bandage it. It wasn't that deep and he didn't feel like covering up for his mom's mistakes once again.

He crawled into bed next to Quinn. She was trying to pretend she was asleep but wasn't really doing a good job at it.

"Babe," he muttered. He was tired from the hours of driving, but also emotionally drained after everything that happened today. He'd hoped his mom would've been able to keep up a façade for a few days, and she usually managed whenever there were strangers around. There was something different about Quinn. There was always something different about Quinn, though.

"Guess I should've worn a better dress, huh?"

"It isn't about you."

He blinked, covering his eyes with his arm as Quinn turned on the small light on the nightstand next to her.

"Then what is it about?"

"Not now, it's almost three. Go to sleep," he turned his back towards her. He knew he was being a complete asshole, but he couldn't handle telling her about what happened so many years ago.

"Puck," her voice was stern and he heard her shift towards him. She put her hand on his shoulder, squeezing softly.

"Go to sleep, Q," he slightly raised his voice, pushing her hand off his shoulder.

"No."

"Quinn, please," he rolled over on his back and sat up. She crossed her arms, pursing her lips and furring her brows.

"No. You told me you hated it when people lied to you, so stop lying to me," she told him firmly and she was right.

He rubbed his hand over his head, out of habit, letting out a sigh. He'd wanted to grow his mohawk back initially but decided against it. "Promise me you won't look at anyone differently?"

She nodded her head, chewing down on her lip as she gripped the covers to her chest.

He took a deep breath. "When Santana moved here, a lot of shit between my mom and dad had gone down already. He drank daily, used drugs, beat us," he tightens his jaw, pausing as memories of nothing but screams, lies and the stench of blood flashed before his eyes.

"Us?" Quinn whispered as she hugged her knees to her chest, peeking under her eyelashes to look at him. He looked so upset, so fragile— she just wanted to hold him but she needed to know. She needed to know what happened.

"My mom, Sarah, me— anyone he had his sights set on that particular night," he picks at the sheets. "At anything, really."

"What happened?" She was afraid to ask him, scared he'd close back off if she came too close.

"Well, my dad, the piece of shit, he promised my mom he'd stop using, because when he used— he was even worse than normal. Mom kicked him out, but he promised her, he promised me, and Sarah. And for a moment there, I actually believed him. He came to see one of my football games, even took Sarah out to watch a movie down at the theatre," he paused, tapping his fingers on the bed. "Santana arrived and my mom was working doubles shifts, trying to get enough money together to pay our bills and buy a cake for my sister's birthday. Mom slept most of the time she was home, so she didn't notice, but I did."

"Did Santana?" Quinn asked quietly as she rested her chin on top of her arm.

"Yeah, she took money and gave it to my dad so he could buy himself some drugs, because in the end we were always less important than his fucking addiction," he spit. His face softened as he looked over at Quinn, "Then one day, he comes over and takes Sarah. I told him no, but I just barely turned twelve— I might as well talked to a fucking wall."

Quinn scooted closer to him as she put a hand on his arm, rubbing it softly. She wished she had never asked.

"I stay awake the entire night, because they didn't come home and mom doesn't seem too struck by it. The next day, the cops show up—" Quinn freezes, so many thoughts running through her mind. She sees tears form in his eyes and her heart breaks all over again. "They tell us he took her ice skating on some remote ass lake. The ice broke and he was too fucking high to get her out. She hadn't even turned seven yet, she didn't deserve to die somewhere in the middle of nowhere because her daddy didn't love her enough to stay sober for a few hours."

"Puck…" Quinn breathes but he shakes his head, his eyes hardening and his body visibly stiffening.

"They let him go, called it a fucking accident. So my mom takes him back in. And I was thinking, if I don't get him out of here or I don't leave— I might kill him," he pauses, taking a deep breath, trying to control his temper. Quinn reaches out to hold his hand, squeezing tightly. She just wanted to make sure she was there for him, like he'd been there for her that entire day. "So I tell the cops where to find his dealer, and when he's most likely to be found there. So, my dad goes to jail for possession, and my mom blames me for killing my sister and taking away the love of her life."

"I—I," Quinn starts and he looks up at her, his brow furrowed, his lips in a thin line as he slowly nods his head to himself.

He swallows hard, "How screwed up is that?"

"Thank you," she whispers against his neck as she hugs him tightly, "For telling me. I know it's hard."

He nods his head against her shoulder, his fingers pressing into her back. She places a kiss on his neck before pulling away. She reaches out to touch the cut on his cheek, as she gently ran the tip of her fingers over the cut, making him wince.

"Did she…?" Her voice trailed off as she pulled her hand back.

"Yes."

Quinn nods her head as she tries to process everything. She still has so many questions, but she figures now is not the time. She reaches out to turn off the bedside lamp before lying down on her side, pressing her back against his chest and putting his arms around her waist.

"Babe," he mutters after a moment. She shifts a little, intertwining their fingers as she pulls his arms closer to her body.

"Mhmm."

"I just want to know I'd never do that you, or our baby. I wouldn't," his voice was low but steady and she feels her heart breaking and being stitched back together at the same time.

"I know. You're a good guy, Puck."

"No, I'm not," he mumbles but she's already asleep.

...

_Tuesday April 2nd, 1974, 09:14 AM_

_Lima Hospital, Lima, OH, The United States_

...

He's tapping her foot and she's nervously fiddling with the sunglasses in her lap.

He hates waiting. She hates the unknown.

"Miss Puckerman?"

Her head shoots up as she slowly nods her head, not getting up until Puck pulls her along. For a moment she forgot this was actually happening.

The nurse looks at her like she's done something wrong, and it's weird because it's the first time anyone has dared to look at her like that and it doesn't feel like that all. Like she's done something wrong. She leads them into a small room and tells her to change in a hospital gown while they wait for the doctor.

She does as she's told, slipping out of her dress as soon as the nurse leaves the room and slipping into the stiff material of the gown. She takes a deep breath, sitting down on the examining table. He looks over at her and it finally occurs to her they haven't talked since breakfast that morning, but it doesn't bother her, not really. It's like they can communicate without words.

A single tears slips down her cheek, and she wipes it away. As on cue, he takes her hand in his and she nods, letting him know she's okay.

The doctor comes in and doesn't even bother looking up from his clipboard as he asks her to lift her gown.

"I'm just checking a few things to see if you're indeed, pregnant," he informs her, putting the item in his hands down and putting on gloves instead. The sound of the plastic snapping onto his skin makes her wince. This all feels like it's a big horrible disease, and it shouldn't feel like that. A baby should be a blessing, it should be welcomed into the world no matter what the circumstances.

She imagines a little girl with blonde curls and Puck's dark eyes and a hatred for dresses because she didn't want to be like mommy but like daddy and a little boy with dark hair like him and smooth, tan skin and a toothy grin with a small round nose and for a second there, she actually gets herself wrapped up in the idea of actually having his children and raising them.

He starts applying pressure to her stomach and she closes her eyes, imagining another heartbeat within her own body.

"You're not pregnant, miss Fabray," the doctor pulls his hands away, picking up his clipboard and writing down a few notes. "Congratulations."

Congratulations. He said, like they should be happy they weren't pregnant. No, he told her— because she's the president's daughter and he's figured that out by now and he wouldn't give the guy who almost knocked her up a second glance because he might as well be a piece of dirt under his shoe.

He leaves and she gets dressed in silence as Puck drives the car around.

"You know," he licks his lips, taking a left turn as he pauses, "for a moment there, I wouldn't really have minded if you were, you know."

He doesn't look at her but she nods her head, more to herself, maybe — she softly murmurs, "Me neither."

"I mean, it saves us a lot of shit now that you're not but," he sighs, looking over at her for a second, "It kind of would've been nice, you know?"

She smiles, nodding her head — a little too fast probably because she's starting to feel lightheaded. "They can make you go away, and they can even force me to marry Sterling but they can't make a baby out to be something it's not. They would have to let me stay with you, because if there's one thing worse than being with a formerly troubled commoner, it's a baby out of wedlock."

"I just kind of, I just kept seeing you with a little baby in your arms and you would look up to me and smile and then it didn't really matter anymore — what they would do to me," he stares at the road with such intensity that's almost a hundred percent sure he actually means it. "Because — because I had you, and that little, tiny..."

"I know," she wipes away some more tears and damnit, she really doesn't want to cry but this is kind of goodbye, isn't it?

One more drive home and that's the end of whatever they were trying to be here. Whatever they were pretending to be these past days, whatever she had tried to make herself believe they were. Because none of it's true. In the end she's the daughter of someone who could never accept she loves a boy who doesn't appear to be perfect and he's the guy with the bad streak and the mohawk and the ability to make any girl fall in love with him but he chose her. That's all they'll ever be.

…

_Wednesday April 3rd, 1974, 4:35 PM_

_Route 75, OH, the United States_

…

Tired, she leaned her head on his shoulder. She let out a yawn and his free hand shifted over to cover hers. She looked at their hands, her fingers gently tracing over his scars from the war, faded but to her they felt new, fresh, present. She adjusted her head a little, so she could look at him. The sound from the rain outside almost blended out the low sound of his radio.

"If I had a day that I could give you, I'd give to you a day just like today," she heard him sing along softly and it hurt her like a knife in the chest. He used to sing with pleasure, without fear. Now he felt like he had to hide.

There was a flash of lightening for the sixth time in fifty minutes, the time they'd been on the road since they left his house and they were getting more frequent. It was unlikely dark for an April afternoon.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, grasping his hand tightly and he turned his head to look at her, his grip on the steering wheel tightening.

"Why?" A frown appeared on his face and he glanced over at the abandoned road for a moment before looking back at her.

"For everything."

He looked back at the road and that was that. A silent agreement that they wouldn't talk about it anymore.

She turned her head to kiss his shoulder, resting her head there for a moment before turning back to look at the barely visible highway. By now there was lightening and thunder and she quickly did a prayer, cursing herself for not having taken her rosary.

"Shit," he mutters as his windscreen wipers stop working and everything goes by so fast. He leans forward and lets go of her hand, resting it on the steering wheel instead as he tries yanking on the handle to make the wipers work again and next thing she's knows she's screaming his name and she can feel rain on her skin.

She wonders if she's dead. There are flashes of lights — like she's laying on the grass in the backyard and the stars are falling down directly on her — but then there's blood. A lot of it. And she's not sure if it's his or hers but there's so much blood.

Then she sees Puck, first smiling then he's yelling her name but every sound soon fades into the steady beat of a heart, and she tries to open her eyes again — she tries and tries and tries but it's like someone is squeezing them shut.

God, the blood it's everywhere. It's on him and it's on her dress and her hands — and then there's darkness again.

Puck's back, for only a few seconds. There's a quiet murmur around them — of people, but they're not staring or whispering about them but they're laughing and eating and obnoxiously talking. He's sitting across from her, eating waffles with extra syrup because he loves those so much and his leather jacket is lying next to him in the red booth. She looks down at her own plate — bacon and eggs and pancakes with extra bacon — and then she spots the small diamond on her left ring finger and she looks up again. He smiles at her and he says something but she can't make out what it is he's trying to tell her. His eyes shine as he talks and she wants to stay here, right here, so desperately.

She wonders if the life you've had eventually flashes in front of your eyes, or the life your desire so desperately to be yours.

...

**"Yeah, I believe you now, I should have kept my head,**

**I should have kept my heart, my heart."**

…

_A/N: Sorry for the humongous wait, I was so busy with school and just a ton of shit I've been dealing with. The worst part is that I had most of this written already but I just couldn't finish it for some reason. Anyway, you're not here to read about all my excuses - here's some more background on Puck and of course the very first part of this story has finally happened. Please review, it's a huge encouragement! Just one or two more chapters :) And again I want to thank my beta Brooke so much! She's literally an angel_


	11. Chapter 11: wait for me, wait for me

…

**"Lonely rivers flow**

**To the sea**

**To the sea**

**To the open arms**

**Of the sea**

**Lonely rivers sigh**

**'Wait for me, wait for me'**

**I'll be coming home**

**Wait for me."**

**- Unchained Melody by the Righteous Brothers**

…

_Thursday April 4th, 1974, 9:01 AM_

_The Washington Hospital, Washington, D.C.,the United States_

...

She sees Sam and she feels him kiss her too soft under the porch light, afraid he'd might break her. She really loved him, she did, and she didn't miss him anymore but at least now when she thought about him it didn't hurt - not anymore. Not like it used to.

Not like it did now. She couldn't breathe, like someone put something heavy on her chest and she couldn't escape. She couldn't get it off.

She sees Finn, too. The tall boy whom she'd thought of to be charming and cute and kind of dorky and _happy_ and then he died. Just like that. He wasn't there anymore, but his kid was. Christopher was and Rachel was and God, she can hear the cries. The cries when that little baby boy took his first breath and was welcomed to the world and the cries when Finn said goodbye to the same one, his coffin being lowered into the ground.

She wants to cry, too, because she can feel it. She can feel her own end beginning. But there are no tears; she can't even move her fingers.

Her parents appear; they look younger. Her mother bends down and fixes the collar of her dress and her father smiles, running a hand over her blonde hair. It was the fourth of July, fireworks were going off and she remembers the looks they gave her when she dared to let go of their hands and went to watch with her sister Fran. _My baby is finally growing up_, she remembers her mother's words.

She wasn't happy like any of them. Not like Sam probably was with his new perfect girlfriend, not like Finn was with Rachel before the tears and how happy he would've been with Rachel and Christopher, not like her parents were back then when she was still little and full of hope and promise. And somehow that didn't even matter to death - that she'd never even known happiness for longer than a moment.

She doesn't even see Puck, not after the first time. She tries to imagine his face, smiling and laughing and even angry, but it won't appear. She asks herself how she could love someone that much and not remember his face. What was wrong with her?

All their faces - Sam, Finn, her father's, even Santana's - they all morph into her own, she's crying and she can't stop for the life of her. All this pain, it's everywhere. It doesn't stop, she can't make it stop. Why can't she make it stop?

…

_Thursday April 4th, 1974, 9:01 AM_

_The Washington Hospital, Washington, D.C., the United States_

...

"How long has he been here?" Russell sighs as he looks over at the tan young man, asleep in the waiting room behind the glass.

"Since the accident, Mr. President," a nurse stumbles on her words, "He was up for most of the night. He even refused to get stitches until she was in surgery."

'Thank you. When will I be able to see my daughter?"

"In, in a few hours, Mr. President," the nurse shyly looks at her feet, Russell already turning away from her.

Judy goes to stand next to her husband, pressing a hand against the glass, her other hand clenching a handkerchief, resting on her chest. "Russell, leave the boy alone. We'll deal with that later."

"He's the cause of this, Judy," Russell snaps, his fist already balling as he stares at Puck as he wakes up and gets himself a cup of coffee, sighing as he sits back down and rubs a hand over his face.

Judy takes in a shaky breath, "My baby is asleep, and she might not wake up. Now is not the time to go around punishing people."

"Exactly, she's in a coma, Judy. _My_ little princess. That's exactly why I need to punish people," he turns to his wife, stalking away after adding, "And I'm starting with him."

"Russell," Judy calls out, trying to stop him, giving one of the bodyguards, Will, a desperate look. He gives her a sympathetic smile, sad around the edges. He can't interfere with the President. Judy knows that so instead she just follows her husband - hoping her presence might calm him down just a little.

"Russell, calm down," she warns him again, laying a hand on his bicep but he shrugs it off.

"What are you doing here?" His voice is stern, cold and Puck gets up from his seat and gives him a confused look, because what did he expect? That he was just going to leave her here by herself after he got them into a car accident?

"I'm waiting for Quinn to wake up, so I can tell her that - I…" He pauses, not sure what to say. What do you tell the girl you just got into coma? I'm sorry? He's been spending the last hours replaying the moment in his head over and over and over until he finally fell asleep, but even there he couldn't escape any of it. He kept seeing her, laying there on the ground in the rain covered in blood, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. He kept seeing the life leave her eyes and he kept hearing the sound of what he thought was her last breath and he kept feeling like he was losing the only thing in his life that really mattered.

"What? That you love her and want to continue ruining her life? Or that you sorry that's she was in a coma and you almost shattered her spine? Maybe you want to tell her thank you but you've had your fun so now you're just going to leave her by herself?" Russell narrows his eyes at him, grabbing him by the collar. Will tries to stop him but Russell pushes the bodyguard away, shooting him a glare as well.

Puck pushes Russell's hands away, taking a step back. "Look, I know you don't like me -"

"Damn well I don't!"

"I know you don't, and I know you don't like the fact that I'm in love with her but -"

"You're not in love with her," Russell spits, "You're in love with right now - what you have now and how easy it was to get it. To get the top prize. But after while, she'll get older and even smarter than she is now and she'll get tired of that bad boy image just like everyone else will - and you're going to realize that was you have isn't that special, and that having someone just because they look good in your trophy case doesn't make any of it love, boy."

"I think you're wrong," the younger man answer, tightening his jaw.

"No, I think you know I'm right, you just don't want to admit it," Russell retorts, letting out a small huff, "You're bad for her. I think the fact she's not with us right now but in a hospital bed is enough proof of that."

"I know I was driving the car but the weather – there…there was an storm," Puck frowns, shaking his head lightly. He isn't even buying the bullshit and he's the one trying to convince everyone else. He was driving the car, bad weather or not, he should've protected her. He should've watched out. He should've done _something_. "The - the super storm? It was - it was on the news."

"Right," the older man lets out a small cynical laugh, "And she was in the car, _because_?"

Puck doesn't say anything just stares right back at him, biting down on his tongue so hard he draws blood.

"I think it's time that you leave. I won't tell her you stopped by so she doesn't get her hopes up."

"Russell," Judy tries to interfere once again but Puck cuts in, clearing his throat, "It's fine, Mrs. Fabray. I'm obviously not wanted here."

He roughly pulls his coat from the chair, giving Russell one more look before walking off into the direction of the exit.

…

_Thursday April 4th, 1974, 09:17 AM_

_The Washington Hospital, Washington, D.C.,the United States_

...

"Puck? Is that you?" Santana stops walking as she studies her cousin coming out of the elevator. He looks bruised and there's a cast around his hand, but that luckily appears to be all. "What are you doing here? Did she wake up yet? Can I see her?"

"I wouldn't know. Her father just sent me away," Puck doesn't make eye contact, running a hand over his head as he looks anywhere but at her.

"So? Where the hell are you going?" She raises her eyebrows, taking a hold of his arm - fearing he might just walk away without telling her anything.

"I don't know. Home."

"I asked you something! Where the hell are you going?" She digs her nails into his skin, frowning at him.

"What do you want me to say, Santana?" He raises his voice, pulling his arm away from her, "That was supposed to me there in that bed. She deserves better than that, than me."

"C'mon, don't be like this," Santana's eyes soften as she looks at her cousin.

"Don't be like what? What could I possibly offer her, besides a cracked skull?" He asks her bitterly as he plays with the zipper of his jacket.

"Stop blaming yourself for things you couldn't stop from happening -" she tries but he cuts her off.

"You're wrong if you think this has something to do with Sarah, because it doesn't. This is about me and Quinn, and how I can't keep barging into her life, not thinking about the consequences."

"It was a storm, Puck. A damn storm."

"Right. It's always something, isn't it? Today it's a storm, yesterday it was just forgotten birth control, the day before that it was just a stupid little military draft, what's it going to be tomorrow? It's always something, Santana, but somehow she's always the one that gets hurt," he blurts out, stuffing his balled fists into the pockets of his jacket.

"Well, get over it," Santana's voice is stern as she stares him down, connecting the dots in her mind, "She has fought enough for you and she has suffered enough for you. Now it's your turn. For once in your sorry ass life, man up! Stop walking away."

He huffs, giving his cousin a harsh look, "It's what I do, Santana, I walk away. Even from the damn President's daughter."

"Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself," Santana snaps, her ponytail shining in the light as she lightly shakes her head, "She's the kind of girl people write books and movies about, and when she walks by on the street everybody turns their heads, and when she becomes someone great - and she _will_- she'll still be the same girl she is now and all of that is _in spite_ of the fact she's somebody's daughter. It's because she's special - and she deserves someone who is willing to fight for her. No matter the odds."

"She is special, I never said she wasn't. I know she is, I can_feel_ it when I'm with her," he stops, closing his eyes for a moment before continuing. "But let's face the facts here," he licks his lips, "A relationship shouldn't be this hard. You shouldn't have to fight this damn hard to make it work."

"Well, a road without obstacles probably doesn't lead anywhere that great," Santana cocks her head to the side as she talks, crossing her arms..

"Did you find that one in a fortune cookie?"

Santana shakes her head, giving him a warning look.

"The bad guy always loses in the movies, right? Maybe this chapter of her life should be over," Puck retorts to her silence, and the worst part is, he actually believes it.

"If you really think that, Puck, then you're even a worse person that I thought, and that's coming from me," she silently nods to herself.

"I do," he responds sternly, his face blank of any emotion.

"You're right, you don't deserve her. Not like this. Not if you're really this person. Do me a solid, don't _ever_ come see her again, will you? "

"San, wait…"

Puck tries to stop her from walking away but it's in vain - she shrugs him off, only giving him a glare before she gets in the elevator.

…

_Monday April 14th, 1974, 11:03 AM_

_The Washington Hospital, Washington, D.C., the United States_

...

She finally wakes up, but she still doesn't see him. She's still adjusting to the light and she really hopes he's just somewhere in the corner of the room, not somewhere else in the hospital. "Puck?"

"He's not here, honey," a male voice tells her, grabbing onto her hand - it's her father.

"Sweetie, we're so glad you're awake," her mother adds, a tear slipping down her cheek as she appears next to her father, running a hand over her head softly. "Quick, go call a doctor," she tells one of the bodyguards before turning back to her daughter.

"What happened? Where's Puck?"

"You were in a car accident, Quinny, and you were asleep for a few days but you're fine now. You'll learn to walk again in no time, we'll all help you and you can still go to Yale next fall, if you want to of course," her mother fills her in with a shaky voice, caressing her cheek with her hand.

"I asked, where is Puck?" Quinn's voice is still soft, but it's stern enough for her mother to know she's serious.

Her father cuts in, "He's not here, honey. Not anymore."

"What - what do you mean? I - I don't understand, did he - did he say anything? Did I - did I do something?" She licks her dry lips and she feels tears coming but she still can't cry. She tries to sit her up but her body's too weak.

"I'm sorry, but he didn't say anything before he left..."

"Russell," Judy's voice is warning but he just shoots her a look that tells her to shut up.

"You need to rest, baby girl. We'll worry about all of this later."

…

_Saturday April 19th, 1974, 04:22 PM_

_The Washington Hospital, Washington, D.C., the United States_

...

When Santana is finally allowed to see her, she brings fresh clothes, mildly warm bacon and Quinn's favorite book, _Jane Eyre_.

"Thank you," Quinn tells her as she takes a bite of the bacon, "I haven't eaten in two days. The food here is disgusting."

"You seem fine to me, Ms. Fabray," Santana sends her a small smile.

"Why didn't you come before? You know I'm lost without you," Quinn half-jokes and Santana starts putting her clothes away. The size of these private hospital rooms were out of the world. Santana kept thinking she could house her entire family in here and they'd still have room left for pets.

"Family only. Your father only let me in to bring some of your belongings. He wouldn't know the difference between a dress and a skirt," Santana says as-a-matter-of-factly, "Besides, it looks to me like you're doing just fine without me, _carinõ_."

"I thought I would be doing worse, too, but the doctor told me I'm overcompensating with jokes. It's common after traumatic accidents," she smiles but it fades, "It's ironic really."

"I'm sure you'll be right back on your feet in a month or two, Ms. Fabray," Santana smiles tightly as she checks the time. Mr. Fabray had only given her five minutes.

She stops hanging Quinn's clothes in her closet as she walks to her bed, frowning as she puts a hand on her head. "Are you okay? You're looking pale all of a sudden."

"I'm f-fine," Quinn smiles faintly, grabbing tighter onto the covers.

"Should I - should I call a doctor?" The Latina asks, moving her hand to rest on Quinn's arm.

"Why doesn't he come see me?"

"Miss Fa-"

"I know, I know daddy wants me to believe he's d-dead," she swallows hard as tears form in her eyes, "But he doesn't seem relieved enough, like he's afraid I'll trap him a lie." A small smile forms on her face at the irony of all of this as she tries to blink her tears away.

Santana squeezes her arm, smiles back at her. It's sympathetic and Quinn realizes she's never actually had a different smile. Just the sympathetic one, because she feels sorry for her and she has felt sorry for her ever since she was a little girl.

"Are you sure you don't want me to call anyone?"

"No, it's just - my father - Puck..." she closes her eyes, "Sometimes these memories, you know? I try to sleep and there's just a single memory of me and Puck and I don't - I don't remember, Santana. I don't remember if they're real."

Santana's eyes light up with understanding, "Oh, I - I understand..." She tucks the blond in, placing a kiss on her forehead briefly, squeezing her forearm before exiting. "I - I have to go, miss, you need to rest."

"Santana?"

"Yes, Miss Fabray?"

"I want them to be real."

"I know, Miss Fabray," Santana smiles weakly before closing the door behind her and breaking down right after she does so.

…

_Saturday May 4th, 1974, 09:48 PM_

_The White House, Washington, D.C.,the United States_

...

"Daddy?" She knocks on the door of her father's office and gets out of her wheelchair, leaving it outside. One of the bodyguards tries to help her but she waves him away. "I'm fine, thank you."

"What do you need, Quinn?" His tone is stern and she knows he's working. There's a phone pressed against his ear and it looks like he's trying to find a number in his planner.

"You can't lock me up."

"Excuse me?" He doesn't look up, starts to dial a number.

"I know Puck isn't dead, Daddy. I know you want me to believe he is but -"

"Was it that damn maid? It's that damn maid, isn't it?" He slams the phone down and narrows his eyes.

"No, it was you. You were so busy trying to convince me he wasn't there but never actually said he wasn't. And you can't lock me up, Daddy. You can't expect me to be your little girl forever."

"I don't expect that! I'm trying to protect you, Quinn!"

"No, you're trying to cage me."

"Quinn, I know you don't see it right now - but that boy he's not good for you. You'll realize this when you're older."

"I'm an adult, Daddy. This is not about Puck. I mean, you can keep me here and you can keep me from going to Yale and from seeing him - but you can't keep me from loving him."

"Try me," he spits before turning to stare at his planner, pretending to browse through it.

"I was lying on the ground, covered in blood, Daddy," her voice quivers but she tightens her jaw to keep herself from crying, "And I thought, well, this is it. I'm going to die."

He puts his reading glasses on, says, "Quinn, stop being ridiculous. I don't have time for this, I still need to call the senator of Pennsylvania and I am late -"

She ignores him, just bites down on her bottom lip. "The worst part is, I kept thinking - that's fine. That'll be okay as long as Puck lives. Don't you get that? I'd rather die than be without him. That's how real it is. And I can't cry anymore, Daddy. I can't cry and sit idly by and wait for him to come to me because I'm too tired. I don't want to have to fight to be able to be with the person I love. I'm too tired. Please."

"No. I won't - I can't let you see him." He shakes his head to himself, tries to write something down but his pen fails to work. He throws it across the room in a fit of anger before running a hand through his hair. Breathing heavily, he puts his head in his hands.

"Fine. If that's your decision, I guess there's not really anything else I could to possibly change your mind," she gives him a small nod before turning around and walking through the door.

"No. I guess not."

She turns around one last time, pausing with her hand on the door knob. "Do you know why I was in Lima, Daddy?"

He looks up once again and slowly shakes his head.

"I... I thought I was pregnant. But when I look back, I wasn't sad or scared about it, just about how you'd react."

"That's enough, go to your room."

"I was actually kind of sad when I found out I wasn't pregnant. Just think about what a waste it would be if you never got to see your grandchildren just because you were worried it would affect your image."

…

_Sunday May 5th, 1974, 03:12 AM_

_Trevor's bar, Washington, D.C., the United States_

...

She gets into his bed and stares at the ceiling.

"Quinn, what are you doing here? It's in the middle of the night," he rubs his eyes tiredly as he moves onto his back, too.

"You never fight for me. You just give up and walk away. You try to find the easy way out but I'm not going to let you."

"I don't," he tries to respond but she tells him to shut up.

"I don't want to have to convince you to be with me all the time. I don't - I can't. I talked to my dad. He isn't a problem anymore, Puck. Not for me at least. I can do without my father if he doesn't want me to be happy."

"You shouldn't have to be without a father," he snaps before sighing and running a hand over his face, "There will be a new problem, trust me. I seem to fuck things up for you."

"I am tired of fighting for you, Puck," she says mindlessly, picking at her nails as they rest above the covers on her chest.

"I know. So stop. The universe obviously doesn't want us together."

"Stop fighting me, damnit," she breathes as she turns her head to look at him, "Stop fighting me - start fight for me or with me or - just stop."

"Quinn - just go home. I can't deal with this right now," he puts an arm above his head and closes his eyes.

"I came here to try and tell you I was done fighting. Yet, here I am, Puck - still fighting for you and I'll never stop because I love you and I don't want to live without you. Even if you don't love me as much as I love you and even if you don't even care enough to fight for me."

"What's the damn point, Quinn?" He bites back, "It's useless. I'm going back to Lima and I need to go back there. I just - I just need to get away from here…"

"Or you can come to New Haven and be with me," she says in response, taking his hand in hers and intertwining their fingers.

"That's not what I want," he responds coldly, letting go of her hand.

"I think it is. I think you do want to come and be with me but you're scared you'll lose me in the end," she pauses turning on her side. "There's a reason I survived all of this; the pain and the heartbreak and the accident. It's because I need to be with _you_."

He turns on his side and sighs. He looks at her, like really looks at her and puts a hand on her face. He softly caresses her skin before leaning forward and kissing her. When he pulls away, he tells her, "I can't come to New Haven with you. I'm sorry, Quinn, I just - _can't_."

"I'll still wait," she responds without skipping a beat. She puts her hand on his cheek, desperately. "I'd _still_ wait - even if you told me now, you would never even consider coming. I'd still wait for you."

"You shouldn't."

"But I will."

"But you will."

…

**"I need your love, I need your love.**

**God, speed your love to me."**

…

_Epilogue is coming up, will he or will he not follow her? I'm really insecure when it comes to what I love and that's writing and I'm about a hundred percent convinced this entire story is like total crap so I apologize if this somehow sucks or seems out of place or is weird. I don't even know. Thank you for reading this and thank you to the people who have reviewed and decide to review now. Thank you. And another thanks to my amazing beta babe Brooke! :)_

_..._


	12. Chapter 12: home's whenever i'm with you

**"Man, oh man, you're my best friend,**

**I scream it to the nothingness**

**There ain't nothin' that I need."**

**- Home by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros**

...

_Epilogue_

...

When she was little she liked to disappear in books and dream she was in the stories. Then later, when reality got a hold of her imagination she tried writing her own stories. Never on paper, just in her head. It was just her and her imagination for most of the time, after all.

She imagined the memories of the books she had read and the movies she had seen were her own and sometimes she wished desperately that they were real - that she could live one of those extraordinary lives and have memories like that full of freedom and love.

...

She was packing up her clothes and pictures and books for Yale - she had decided to go - wheelchair or not. She was almost walking entire days now, anyway, she could deal with the pain.

Besides, anything to get away from her father, who won't look at her, and her mother, who didn't know who to side with, and her sister who can't shut up about how_Quinn Fabray_ isn't as perfect as we all thought after all.

She stumbles on the old picture of Puck, hidden in her old and torn copy of _Pride and Prejudice_. She sighs, sitting down on her bed as she clenches the picture in her hand and looks around her room.

She guesses her room and her dysfunctional family aren't the only things she has to leave behind.

...

Yale is great.

She loves taking classes and being independent and having discussions about things in the world or in the past and not feeling like she's being treated any differently. Her classmates in Yale are so competitive they don't even care her father is the President - they just want to beat her at everything. (She loves feeling so smart when she beats them though.) She loves finally feeling like she's doing something.

Some days are hard and she cries herself to sleep - she misses Santana's hugs and her sister's whining about some dress and even her father sometimes. She doesn't think about Puck, because she doesn't want to.

He doesn't want her so she won't want him.

...

During her second semester he shows up at her apartment and he looks differently and she forgets it's already been three months.

He doesn't apologize and he doesn't make an elaborate confession of how much he loves her, just says, "I missed you and I love you and - will you…will you marry me?"

She's done fine without him for three months, just fine - but after he's been with her for five minutes it already feels so much better than_fine_.

"Yes," she replies and doesn't cry or jump up happily but just carefully smiles at him and he smiles back as he takes her hand and puts a small silver ring with a tiny diamond around her left finger and kisses her. It's a much different ring than the one Jeff got her, but she likes this one much, much better. So she kisses him again.

...

They get married at a small church in New Haven a few months later, not many people are there but her mother shows up and Santana is there too, and even Rachel comes - and that's all that really matters. At the end, they say a prayer for Finn and all the others who've been lost along the way, and Sarah too. After, he looks over at her and squeezes her hand before kissing her again.

He moves in with her into her small apartment and he finds a job in another bar, this time as a manager. One night when they're sitting on the couch - her head on his shoulder and his arm tightly wrapped around her shoulders - he kisses her forehead and quietly says, "Thank you for waiting."

And it's then she realizes that those three months without him - she _had_ been waiting, like she had told him, even if she didn't know so herself. All those minutes she had spent not thinking about him but studying or making new friends - she hadn't thought about him because she _knew_ that one day she'd be with him again. People don't just go through as much as they do and give up and not be together.

"I did it for me, too," she tells him in reply, moving her head so she can look up at him, "I'm not happy when I'm not with you, Puck, and that sounds like a sappy romantic television movie but it's true. I'm not - I tried to be and I pretended for a while - but I'm not, not completely."

"I'm sorry," he apologizes, using his free hand to brush her hair behind her ears as he avoids her eyes

She takes his hand and squeezes it, placing a kiss on it, before retorting, "Don't be."

...

Years later, when they don't have to go to the White House to see her family anymore - they're at dinner with just her mother, since her father disowned her right after he found out she chose Noah over him. She had sent him an invitation - he was her father after all and in spite of everything, she _did_ still love him - but it was left unanswered.

They eat steak and even joke around and her mother allows Santana to join dinner and she decides then that she's not scared anymore. She's not scared of being someone or_not_ being someone.

She clears her throat, squeezing Puck's knee in the process, "I have a confession."

Puck shoots her a confused look and her mother looks rather afraid and Santana has that one look in her eyes like she already knows what's coming, one that Quinn will never understand, because how does she know _everything_?

"I'm pregnant."

Santana takes out a bottle of champagne (and more orange juice for her) and her mother cries (and so does she) and Puck just hugs her for a moment, first whispering an '_I love you_' before thanking her. And she knows exactly what that means, so she repeats the sentiment - she's thankful too, that he gave her everything she ever wanted.

...

She realized that now that she had Puck, really _had_ him - that she could finally make memories of her own. She wouldn't have to pretend anymore.

They could have all the babies they want and they could get married and he could open a bar or just work in one and she could become a lawyer or a writer and they could move to a nice small town and live in a white picket fence house or they could do none of those things. There were _possibilities._Memories that hadn't already been featured in books or movies.

And now she could finally start making some.

…

**"Let me come home,**

**home is wherever I'm with you**

**Ahh, home**

**Let me come home**

**Home is when I'm alone with you."**

…

_I hope this didn't disappoint but it probably did because I suck at epilogues, haha. Thank you to everyone who has ever read, reviewed or favorited this story! And of course a huge thanks to my beta, Brooke! She's been you all._


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